


Mala Propter Malum

by cincoflex



Series: Malum [1]
Category: Jaguar "British Villains" Commercial
Genre: F/M, Fluff and Humor, Tongue-in-cheek, Villain Tom Hiddleston
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-30
Updated: 2016-06-22
Packaged: 2018-05-17 05:36:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 19
Words: 39,309
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5856190
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cincoflex/pseuds/cincoflex
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sebastian Slay is a Villain; he's not *supposed* to fall for the Heroine, but then again it's his prerogative to change the rules, or else where's the fun in evil?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Part One

**Author's Note:**

> A universe inspired by the Jaguar commercials and screwball comedies. We'll see if this thing flies, eh?

Mala Propter Malum

CAST  
(based on the Jaguar ‘It’s good to be bad’ commercials)

Sebastian Slay—Tom Hiddleston (cyber-security (Blackguard), extortion, money laundering)

Danny Holloway—Mark Strong (online and off-line gambling, drugs)

Sir Gareth Ravi—Ben Kingsley (arms dealing, white collar crime)

Lady Eglantine Mortmont-Slay—Diana Rigg (blackmail, assassination)

\--also--

Matthew López-Campbell—burly businessman, pain in the ass

Samantha López-Campbell—scientist, frustrated genius

Part One

Sunday afternoons were always rather tedious for me, and Aunt Eglantine was making it all the more difficult this time. We were having tea in the drawing room of Lychgate Hall, and I was doing my best to ignore both the disapproving stares from all the bleak family portraits as well as the pointed interrogation of my aunt. 

“Still no prospects?”

“Not at the moment, no.”

“And you’re sure you’re not . . . .”

“No, _not_ attracted to men, auntie.”

“Pity,” she sighed. “Might be easier if you were, and it’s _so_ in vogue at the moment.”

“Yes, well be that as it may, I’m not going to change my orientation simply so you can gain the upper hand amongst your social set,” I informed her, and helped myself to a biscuit. On her lap, Strychnine watched me and disapproved. I glared back at the annoying fluffy Angora, who looked away, loftily ignoring me.

“Don’t be ridiculous; I was merely thinking it would put off questions. I’m not pressuring you,” she assured me in a tone of false sweetness. “Just because you and I are the very _last_ of a long and distinguished line of ruthless leaders who have been undermining this nation for generations shouldn’t make you feel _any_ urgency in establishing your own family, dear boy.”

“Certainly not feeling the squeeze at all,” I managed a bland smile and gave her a cheeky wink as well. Auntie pursed her wrinkled mouth so tightly it looked like a dying carnation, but I felt sure I saw a glint of amusement in her rheumy eyes.

“Don’t be impertinent, Sebastian; remember who’s brewing your tea.”

My aunt’s glory days—or gory days depending how you look on it—as a poisoner were long past, but I humored her and pretended to look alarmed as I set my cup down. “Noted, ma’am.”

This pleased her and she gave a nod of satisfaction. “Ha. Now be a good lad and tell me about how things are going with BlackGuard.”

We both relaxed and I rolled out the vitals of the company, pleased to be able to brag a bit. We’d snagged a lucrative contract to protect a rock star and his entourage, I’d been able to channel fifteen million pounds through various dummy corporations in Malaysia, and one of my up and coming young hackers had slipped through Scotland Yard’s cyber security for nearly three days before being discovered. Auntie nodded approvingly, and wanted to know if I’d increased my fee for the laundering service. I assured her I had.

This part of the visit wasn’t too bad, and I might have found it almost a pleasure if it hadn’t been for Strychnine keeping his green-eyed stare on me the entire time. I could tell he was simply _dying_ to leap into my lap and shed on my suit, hungering for the chance to load my lapels with as much white hair as possible. As it was, I’d probably have to use a sticky roller on my derriere when I left, just to insure I didn’t carry too much of his dander out of the house. 

I wasn’t allergic to him, precisely, but I wasn’t fond of the beast either. No, I much preferred the company of _my_ own pet who neither shed nor clawed, and who could stand up to Strychnine one on one anytime.

“Oh _do_ pay attention, Sebastian!” my aunt broke into my reverie. “Honestly, you haven’t heard a word I’ve said in the last two minutes!”

A bit guiltily, I managed a smile. “Sorry. So what did I miss?”

“Sir Ravi is going to be throwing one of those reception parties he’s so fond of,” Aunt Eglantine repeated. “And I’m planning to attend. Will you be there as well?”

I nodded. “We’ll probably have a triumvirate afterwards if I know Sir Gareth.” And I did; he was always the stickler for protocol and not above flaunting his estate in the process. It still grated on Danny’s nerves but I was used to it. Sir Gareth wore his class the way the rest of us wore our underwear: cleanly and without conscious thought.

“Oh good,” Auntie murmured, “Maybe you can find out why Alistair cannot park my car outside Harrods’s anymore.”

I tried not to grimace. “Er, that’s not the sort of thing to bring up at the meeting . . ."

“Nonsense. I NEED a permit and you three will arrange it.”

One more item to add to my list. It would be a minor matter for one of my staff at BlackGuard to wrangle the forged paperwork, or if more expedient, simply hack in and create the permit themselves, but certainly it was a bit of a bother. Much as I respected my Aunt Eglantine, there _were_ moments when I wished I wasn’t her only relative and thus the sole recipient of these requests.

After a little more conversation I took my leave, driving off from the ancestral home in Essex and back towards London, feeling relief with each mile travelled. I’d done my duty as a good nephew and now I was ready to plunge myself back into the exciting and glamorous world of being one of England’s top three Villains.

But first, a quick stop at the Pimlico farmer’s market and a few fresh greens for the mighty guardian back at my Belgravia home. My little friend is particular about his greens, and I didn’t have any pressing plans, so I made my way to Mr. Sunderlund’s stand and picked up collard greens, alfalfa, and the carrot tops he set aside for me. He had them ready, for which I was grateful, and handed over a few samples of broccoli as well. 

Once I was home, which in this case meant a corner townhouse in Eaton Square; I presented the greens to Mrs. Keene, who took them with a sigh. “You spoil him, sir.”

“I do, but it’s my prerogative,” I reminded her. “Light supper please.”

“Very well, sir . . . crepes?”

“Perfect,” I assured her, and made my way up the winding stairs to the terrace. The night air was lovely, and I appreciated anew the amazing job the landscapers had done in providing a charming little garden up here. Trellises arched above it, vines filtering the noise from the streets below, and the raised flowerbeds were in bloom. 

I went to my pet’s little enclosure and squatted down over the walled terrain, speaking softly. “Good evening Mr. Slowpoke.”

He made his way over to me, familiar with my voice and certainly aware that it was nearly time to eat. I reached down and ran my fingers lightly over his carapace, as I watched him amble up. Mr. Slowpoke was a Russian tortoise, a full six pounds for his sixteen years, and precious to me since he was the last gift my parents ever gave me. I suppose that seems particularly sentimental, but shortly after I received him, both my mother and father were lost at sea when their yacht went down in storm. During the year after that, when people tried to be kind and considerate to me, I found myself focused on my pet, and his straightforward approach to life in terms of eating, excreting, exploring and sleeping was very soothing. I’d facetiously named him Mr. Slowpoke, but in fact he could be quite quick, and I came to realize that he had a good deal of personality for such a small package.

A stodgy, sometimes grumpy personality, but there were also days when his simple delight in things like sunshine, or fresh dandelions was a balm, and over the years both he and I grew. By the time I was admitted to the London Triad, I stubbornly insisted he would be my Pet of Qualification, much to the amusement of Danny Holloway and annoyance of Sir Gareth.

“A tortoise? A common bottom-of-the-garden creature?” Sir Gareth had sniffed. “What sort of fear and awe is THAT going to inspire?”

“Stick a finger near his beak and find out,” I’d responded calmly. “Not all of us prefer exotics.” 

Sir Gareth had pursed his lips at this bit of cheek, since his own Pet of Qualification was a tarantula that he himself was too timid to touch. The golden-kneed Chaco had a huge terrarium in Sir Gareth’s study, and was taken care of by a Guatemalan maid.

“It’s highly irregular. Are you sure you wouldn’t consider an ocelot, or perhaps a hawk?”

“I’m certain,” I had insisted, knowing I had neither the time nor the temperament for either of those animals. The work of a Villain runs to all hours, and Mr. Slowpoke was minimum maintenance, which worked for me. 

And I was fond of him.

Danny had stayed quiet, since his _own_ Pet of Qualification was hardly the stuff of legend either. Moira, his ancient Irish Setter was a darling, and still lovely, but not quite what one expected of a Villain.

“Bugger the requirement,” he’d grumbled to me once. “She’s got more sense than the ex, and my little girl would go _spare_ if I got rid of Moira. Besides, she’s a good judge of character.”

And so it was. Sir Gareth was of the old school, which tended towards the traditional exotics as mark of a Villain, but he allowed us both our choices, albeit grudgingly. 

Why a Villain needed a Pet was a sore point anyway, but according to the Tome of Villainy (15th ed), it was one of the qualifications, along with training in hand-to-hand weapons, a designated territory, and a the official wardrobe. (Every edition updated _this_ section, thank God, otherwise we’d still be stuck with Edwardian black frock coats and top hats.)

My meanderings were cut short as Mrs. Keene came out, two dinners on the tray in her hands. “Sir,” she murmured, handing it to me with a little smile. I thanked her and took it, setting the dish with the artfully piled greens on it in front of Mr. Slowpoke, and then settled in at one of the café chairs with my own dinner.

The night was lovely, and the crepes perfect. As I finished them, I took a moment to mentally go over my agenda for the next day, which included meeting the head of Bio-Global, Mr. Matthew López-Campbell; lunch with Danny, and a long afternoon at the office. Oh, and procuring a placard for Auntie of course. She’d be checking up on that within a day, easily. Still, nothing too strenuous . . . or exciting, alas. Perhaps I could talk Danny into something to get our circulation going . . . breaking into Sir Gareth’s favorite tailor was always fun.

Still considering this, I looked to Mr. Slowpoke, who had attacked his meal with an intensity I admired. “I’m considering mischief. What do you think?”

The tortoise looked at me, and winked one eye; I took it as a sign of approval and chuckled as I collected his empty dish.


	2. Chapter 2

My first impression of Mr. Matthew López-Campbell was not a good one. He kept me waiting for ten minutes outside his office, and although I tried to put his elderly fashion-model secretary at ease, she had a better grasp of who I was than _he_ did, apparently, and kept nervously apologizing for the delay. I assured her I knew it wasn’t her fault, but by the time the office door opened I was more than ready to cut both my visit and interest in this venture short.

Mr. López-Campbell--a burly and hirsute individual with a heavy mustache--tried to give me the standard ‘we’re both busy captains of industry so I’m sure you understand’ apology that barely covered his gloat at having the upper hand, so I circumvented him and instead of sitting in the visitor’s chair, I sat behind the desk— _his_ desk—and smiled at him.

“And yet here I am, past your secretary, past you, and within a fingertip’s reach of all your secrets,” I pointed out to him as I rested one hand on his laptop and the other on his stylish cell phone. “Careless. How do you know I actually am who you _think_ I am, Mr. López-Campbell?”

He didn’t like that, but was too canny to let his anger show. “We have security here, and video cameras, Mr. Slay. You’d be stopped before you reached the lobby.” 

I flipped my phone out, tapped it against his, and then passed it over the lid of the laptop. “Yes, but all the information I could ever want has just been stolen—sent off to my associates. Just. Like. that.”

He stopped being polite. “Hey! You can’t DO that!”

“Au contraire, I just did—or rather, I _could_ have,” I murmured, sitting back and smiling at him. “And if _I_ could do it, so could anyone with access to this building. A cleaning lady. A delivery man. A temporary worker. Now I’m generally a patient man, but I don’t appreciate being taken for granted, so if you’re interested in what BlackGuard can do to make your enterprise safer, I’m ready to talk. But any more gamesmanship and I will be more than happy to let you find another agency to guard your data.”

Oh it felt lovely to watch his face go red with suppressed anger, to see his mustache bristle up as he fought to control himself. After a few seconds, he gulped in a breath, forced a smile, and nodded. “Very well. You . . . make a good point, Mr. Slay, and I won’t forget it. Shall we start again?”

I rose up, taking my time, and came over to him, hand extended. “Very good. I appreciate your intelligence. Now, what can BlackGuard do for you, Mr. López-Campbell?”

It’s a learned art to keep the gloating to oneself. Villains traditionally savor the gloat, but Sir Gareth feels that it alienates, and that it’s better as a parting shot. I tend to agree, and prefer to keep conversation going, so I listened to Mr. López-Campbell re-inflate his ego as he spoke about his company. I listened with half an ear, letting him give me a tour of the place as he rambled on about the various chemicals and drugs his corporation created, tested and marketed world-wide.

Mildly interesting, and I could understand why security--cyber and otherwise--would be important to him. I mentally took notes and tried to look fascinated as we passed through offices, chemical storage warehouses and various laboratories. Most of the workers gave us the deferential treatment, and I saw a few exploitable security issues in nearly every department. We had been touring for nearly forty minutes and I was beginning to yawn when he approached a glass door and passed his ID over the scanner near the handle.

“This is one of our . . . think tanks,” he murmured, and I followed him in. “We’ve got a very promising line of new antibiotics that started here.”

“Matthew? What are you doing down here?” someone asked, and I looked over to see a woman coming towards us wearing a lab coat. “You promised me a warning before coming in!”

“I _sent_ you a text,” he lied, and I watched the woman roll her eyes at that transparent attempt at deception. She glared back at him, and then seemed to realize there was someone else in the room, her glance shifting to me. I smiled, but the full and beautiful intensity of her gaze left me slightly breathless. I held out my hand.

“Sebastian Slay,” I managed, lucky to get that much out, “of BlackGuard.”

“Sleigh? Or Slay?” she wanted to know, sliding a warm palm against mine. “And why are you here?”

“Slay—” I began, only to be interrupted by López-Campbell, who crowded close to the lady.

_“Samanita, don’t act up; this is the security expert,”_ he hissed in Spanish. _“He’s a damned ball-breaker so just smile and be nice.”_ Looking back at me he murmured, “I’m sorry about that. This is Doctor Samantha López-Campbell, who despite being my sister is one of our lead researchers here.”

Quite frankly I wasn’t sure what to process first, so I chose the most interesting information which was that Samantha López-Campbell was beautiful. And not in the standard everyday magazine model stereotype either, which I generally found boring. No, she was _lush_ ; a full-bodied temptress with a generous mouth and delicious curves that the lab coat didn’t hide very well. I realized I’d been staring only when she pulled her hand from mine because I wasn’t in a hurry to let it go, actually.

“Enchanted,” I told her truthfully. She arched an eyebrow up at me and I would have said more but López-Campbell interrupted, clearing his throat. 

“Yes, we just wanted a look at your latest project . . . _Doctor,_ ” he muttered.

“As long as we’re not disturbing you, that is,” I added. That seemed to mollify her suspicions a bit, and she drew in a breath—a move I rather liked, actually—before nodding. One loose dark curl dangled over her forehead and she swept it back before speaking.

“Very well, although it’s only in the preliminary stage. I have a formula I’m working on that may be able to analyze the precise nutritional needs of mammals based on their specific DNA . . . that is, based on a sampling of their blood or saliva. Although we already have a good understanding of the nutritional requirements of hundreds of species, there are intricate and often important differences in the concentration of vitamins and other nutrients that if properly formulated could help increase the health and well-being of the mammal in question . . .”

And she was off, leading us through the lab to a room with refrigerated lockers and a row of impressive microscopes. I managed to follow the gist of her presentation, nodding along as I watched her move around to point at screens of data projections around the room. My fascination now encompassed both her obvious brilliance and zeal along with her cuddly appearance, growing by the moment. I’m not generally one to be swept away on a first meeting, but Samantha López-Campbell was vibrant, dedicated, and impassioned about her work in a way that was impossible to resist. 

_“Enough, Samanita, you’re overdoing it as usual and boring the fucking shit out of us,”_ Her brother growled softly after about twenty minutes.

She blushed, her words trailing off, looking embarrassed.

Oh, I was going to make this man regret that remark.

Clearing my throat, I murmured, _“Hardly. This is truly inspirational work, Doctor López-Campbell,”_ in my best Castilian.

She gave a glorious smile as López-Campbell looked away, speechless. I nodded slowly. “It’s apparent to me that with this sort of critical research going on here, you _definitely_ need my services to keep it safe. I’ll have a team of assessment specialists ready to evaluate your current situation and set-up.”

“Wonderful,” López-Campbell managed through a grimace. I ignored him and turned back to her, but the good doctor had begun to move away, picking up a clipboard and scribbling something on it. 

“If you’re going to be putting in a security system I insist on seeing what you have in mind before _any_ work is done,” she announced. “Labs are not designed the same way as offices, and I won’t have my work disrupted or destroyed because of ineptitude.”

“Oh absolutely,” I agreed. “Unquestionably.”

“And I have the right to veto anything that I see as ineffective or cumbersome?” she prodded, looking up from her notes to me in a slightly challenging way that sent a little jolt through me.

“Within reason,” I told her. “Just as you have your field of expertise I have mine, Doctor López-Campbell, but I’m sure we can reach the necessary compromises with mutual satisfaction, because truly, I _do_ want to satisfy you.”

I have no idea what inner imp prompted me to murmur that, but I kept my expression as guileless as I could while noting her quick double blink at the entendre.

At that point López-Campbell loudly cleared his throat. “Well, if we’re all done here, let’s move on. I don’t know about you two, but _I_ have a schedule to keep.” Without even acknowledging or thanking his sister he turned and strode out of the lab, clearly expecting me to follow.

I didn’t.

Instead, I gave Doctor López-Campbell a smile and my card. “Thank you for the highlight of the tour; I appreciate your time and look forward to working with you.”

She took it, and looked up at me again; this time I noted that her smile was warmer, more personal. “You’re welcome, Mister Slay,” she told me, and I felt her gaze on my back as I left.

I won’t lie--it was a delicious feeling.


	3. Chapter 3

_Samantha_

Naturally the last thing I needed, particularly today, was to have Matthew bring someone down to my workshop. Not only did I have a million things to do, I also had a video conference scheduled with Doctor Breckler.

Anyway, brilliant I may be at times, but when my thoughts are tied up in lists and agendas it’s difficult to shift focus quickly, and when the cause of the shift is Matthew, my guard goes up like a force field. He hardly ever keeps me informed about the day-to-day of Bio-Global, and if I wasn’t for the fact that I keep on the good side of his secretary Pamela, I’d be finding out major decisions from the news broadcasts. Lucky for me Pamela discreetly BCs me most of the important memos. So while I did know that my brother was looking into improving security, I didn’t know he was starting today, with a visitor.

Visitors. The _only_ time Matthew trots them down to my domain is when he’s trying to impress people, and then I have to be deferential and polite when all I really want is to be left alone with my projects. Oh I understand the importance of good public relations, and in a left-handed way I appreciate that my brother thinks I’m one of the highlights of the company, but it’s so disruptive! I never know how long they’re going to stay, I detest having to explain things in basic language and then make small talk instead when they don’t understand my work. 

On top of that, it’s never pleasant to meet new people by surprise. I have my routines and comfort zones, all of which have been created and maintained so I can do what I do without fuss. If I know I’m going to meet others I like having time to plan for it: what I’ll wear, what I might say. It’s important to me because all my life it’s been far too common for people to judge me on sight alone.

Or more accurately, _size_ alone, as Matteo keeps reminding me. I am not exactly the poster girl for Bio-Global or any other company. Most of the time I ignore him, but it’s not always a simple thing to do, particularly since society seems to be on his side. I’ve always been big, heavy, large, plump, pick your adjective, and although I’ve tried to change that in the past, genetics and lifestyle are against me. I know what I can do, but I’m also aware that the majority of those courses of action are frustrating, ineffective in the long term, and some are downright dangerous. By now I’m more accepting of myself. Mostly.

But it’s not easy, and my brother will probably never stop needling me because he’s a jerk. If it wasn’t for the fact that he has the controlling shares of Bio-Global I’d walk away in a minute, but for now I’m stuck working with him until I save up enough to start up my own company.  
So far I have only a portion of what I need squirreled away, but I’ve been setting aside a few nifty compounds and formulas so I can patent them when the time comes. Until then, it’s a matter of saving, plotting and keeping my brother in check. Speaking of which . . . 

The guest he brought down certainly did that! I suppose I’d been expecting another stuffed shirt, or maybe one of the slick and hip business associates that Matteo prefers, but when Mr. Slay spoke up in Spanish right to my brother’s rude face I nearly burst out laughing. Brilliant! It did my heart good to see somebody get a shot in, and the fact that Mr. Slay isn’t hard on the eyes helped too. I’m not sure if he actually understood what I was saying about the nutritional formula, but he seemed interested, and it was very kind of him to consider the work important.

I would love to believe he was being flirtatious, but that’s probably wishful thinking on my part. Still, the visit went well, and I hope that when the time comes to look at the schematics that BlackGuard is going to supply that Mr. Slay keeps his word and lets me have some input. That would be fabulous.

In any case I left and headed home, grateful to kick my shoes off and head to the bathroom for a long soak. Once properly settled into the tub, I picked up the handful of mail and made my way through it, annoyed at the number of non-important and impersonal items there. The only letter of interest turned out to be an invitation to a cocktail party at the home of Sir Gareth Ravi. I'd heard Matthew mention him as a potential investor for Bio-Global, and suspected that was the only reason I'd gotten an invitation.

I was tempted to pass on it, but two things made me decide to accept. The first was that I'd get pressure from my brother to show up. He'd want me there to trot out my credentials and speak earnestly about all the good things we were creating, so if I tried to blow this off he'd nag me until I changed my mind-that was his predictable course of action.

The second reason was that I'd heard rumors that Sir Gareth was . . . a Villain. Nothing definite, of course, nothing proven, but intriguing just the same. Nobody ever knew for sure who was and wasn't a member of a Triad, and there were all sorts of wild stories about them ruling over various cities of the world. Fanciful stuff, and even I, a logical scientist wasn't entirely immune to the legends. If nothing else, it was sure to be an elegant party, judging from the beautiful card stock and graceful engraving on the invitation, so I RSVP'd that I would be attending.

After my bath, I went to check on Zoth. He drifted around in his oversized brandy snifter, waving his veiled fins, waiting for me to drop his little pellet dinner into the water, which I did.  
“If I were a mad scientist,” I told him, “I’d genetically modify you so you were the size of a barracuda. You’d put the average garden koi to shame.”

It was a rather neat idea, and I suppose if I turned my brain onto the logistics and research I probably could do it, but I had other matters to consider, and Zoth’s ego was already large enough as it was. He knew he was beautiful and didn’t need to be three feet long to prove it.  
Betta he might be in name, but my little pet was completely alpha in his world.

I spent some time online after that, answering emails and catching up with my Science Sisters Lian and E’thel, both of whom wanted to know if I’d finished the latest Kill Dolly novel. 

I felt worlds better once I signed off an hour later, grateful that I had their friendship and support these last three years or so. We’d found each other through a mutual fandom and have been on-line friends ever since. 

Talking to them put me in a much better mood, as did the bath, so I slept well, even dreaming a bit, which was nice. Nothing too unusual unless you count finding a subway that would take me to Spain, and a shop that sold edible Christmas ornaments. I recorded it, as I do with all my dreams, and put the journal away before going about my morning routine.

Matthew was waiting for me at my lab door—not a good sign. I unlocked it and resigned myself to letting him in while I got ready to check on my experiments.

“Thanks for being so fucking _gracious_ yesterday,” he sniped, glaring at me. “Sebastian Slay is _not_ the sort of man you want to piss off, Samanita!”

“I’m sorry, but are you sure _I_ was the one irritating him?” I shot back, well-versed in this sort of sparring. “He seemed perfectly reasonable to me.”

“Reasonable, ha. He’s just another snob-assed rich prick with an accent,” Matthew groused, following me into the next room. “They love to lord it over anyone who wasn’t born in this damned country or who has skin any shade darker than toilet paper. It’s all about race around here.”

This was rich coming from my brother, who banked on his own ethnicity whenever it was expedient for him or the company. I pulled on a lab coat.

“I’m extremely busy today . . . did you have some sort of point to this gripe session?”

“Just . . . keep an eye on his people when they’re down here doing any pre-system work. Oh, and did you get the invite to the thing Sir Ravi is throwing?”

“Yes.” I met my brother’s gaze, and he looked me up and down.

“You know the drill. Conservative. Stay in the background unless I need you to---”

“---Explain the science. Yes, yes, I know,” I huffed. “I swear I could do a video presentation and just upload it to your phone.”

“In person is better, even if it’s you,” he shot back. “Sure you won’t consider that lap band surgery?”

“Fuck you and go a-way, Matthew,” I sing-songed back, fighting my fury. I’d learned not to give into it around him; he loved watching me lose my temper. He managed a grin and left. I listened to his footsteps fade away, and mentally considered how many compounds I had within reach that could poison him. 

At least nine; _more_ if I did some combinations.

It hurt because we weren’t always this way. When Matthew and I were young we got along well and supported each other more often than not. He was my handsome big brother and I was his nerdy kid sister, both of us loved by our parents. But somewhere down the line things changed. Once he was working for himself Matthew got harder, a lot harder. He lost patience and I know he had a few brushes with the law.

I wish I could say he fell under the influence of bad people, or that terrible things happened to him to twist his nature, but that would be a lie. It was just sort of bit by bit that he changed. He started using people, and I was one of them; started focusing on results instead of his increasingly questionable actions, and by the time we’d moved to England I knew I needed to make a break from him. I tried to warm up to my sister-in-law Tania, but she and I have never been close, mostly because she’s one of these obsessively thin women who goes for tummy tucks every three years. 

In any case, all I could do was stay quiet and keep out of his way until the time came to make the break. It would hurt, sure, but in the long run I’d be able to look myself in the mirror again and know I was my own person.

*** *** ***  
_Sebastian_

Sir Gareth’s home was a lovely Georgian manor in Sussex; a jewel of a place with the lawns manicured to the inch. Both Danny and I had been there many times, and while it reminded me of Lychgate Hall, it was smaller, and kept up a bit better. I drove the Jaguar CX75 up parallel to the steps and handed off the key fob to the valet, who looked envious and apprehensive.

The sounds of a string quartet drifted over the lawns, and I drew in a breath, well-aware that it would be a bit of a stifle for the night. Sir Gareth was fairly traditional, which meant the music would be classical, the canapes just on the edge of nouveau cuisine, and the guest list top drawer. In short, a fairly typical upper class party, with only a few people aware of anything unusual. If it wasn’t for two points I would have sent my regrets and spent the time reading, with a glass of wine and a box of cheese crackers within reach.

But I knew I was required to attend the meeting with Danny and Sir Gareth; that was an absolute duty. The other factor that helped was the thought that I might see Samantha López-Campbell. I’d checked the invitation list after I’d hacked into it from Sir Gareth’s personal secretary and noted that both she and her brother had RSVP’d. The opportunity to cross paths with her had me smiling, and I took care to look as good as I could this evening. That meant formal black, bow tie and a hint of cologne.

The party filled the entrance hall and the main reception room, with people in little clusters everywhere. I steeled myself and took on the slightly aloof look that Auntie insisted was essential for a good Villain and took my time in surveying the crowd, making sure I knew where the easiest exits were. I spotted my relative holding court at one of the regency sofas near the cavernous fireplace, her practiced charm drawing in a circle of old friends and social climbers around her like the queen bee she was. From across the room she caught my glance and nodded; we would talk later, but she approved of my attire.

That was a load off my mind. I lightly plucked a champagne flute from the nearest caterer and slowly strolled around the edge of the room, scanning and assessing the people I knew, and making estimates of the ones I did not. Since my attention was focused on that, I ended up blind-sided by sudden appearance of Beebe Victor, socialite and pain in the backside.

She screeched, “Se-BAS-tian sweetie! You look so ultra fa-BOO tonight!” and proceeded to blow an air kiss in the direction of my face, thus presenting me with a hint of shrimp puff breath.

“Beebe,” I replied, blandly keeping my smile small. I hadn’t anticipated she’d be here and figured she must be the plus-one to another guest at the party. 

“Still as delicious-looking as ever-wever,” she burbled. “I can’t forgive myself for letting us drift apart.” This was a bit of a fabrication since we’d never been particularly close despite her attempts. I made a show of patting her hand as I unhooked myself from her death-grip.

“It happens,” I assured her. Beebe was still extremely blonde and bony, but her mouth puckered out in an alarming way that told me she’d gone for a double dose of collagen; at the moment she resembled Daisy Duck with carmine lipstick.

“But I don’t _like_ it,” she pouted, which was an expression her newly inflated lips took to the extreme. I had to cough to hide my snicker, and in turning away, caught sight of Samantha López-Campbell a few feet away, her interest in the titles on the bookshelf pulled by my fabricated illness. Her gaze met mine for a long moment, and I found myself playfully mouthing _‘help me’_ to her.

After a few seconds, she drew in a breath and stepped closer to my side. “Oh dear, you’re not going to vomit again, are you, Mr. Slay?” Looking at Beebe she added, “I’m Doctor López-Campbell, and it’s probably wise to move away from him. Not infectious you understand, but his anatidaephobia flares up from time to time.”

Beebe quickly sidled away, giving me a shocked look. “Oh, uh, I’m so sorry, Sebastian. Ooo, I, em, see a few people I need to talk to . . . do forgive me sweetie!”

As she made her way across the room, I shot a grateful glance to my rescuer. “Brilliant.”

“Simple,” she countered, giving me a quick smile.

“And what precisely is anatidaephobia?” I wanted to know as I savored the sight of her. Doctor López-Campbell had on a knee-length frock of mossy green, and a broach of opals at the shoulder. They were in the shape of a fish, which was to my way of thinking, charming.

“Fear of being watched by a duck,” she told me.

We stared at each other, both of us trying hard not to smile and finally I couldn’t hold a straight face a second longer. I laughed, feeling a bit giddy in the process. “Again: brilliant.”

“It seemed to fit,” she shrugged, and for a moment we both held onto that moment of shared humor. Then she made a move to turn away, but I cleared my throat to catch her attention once again.

“These are all pretty generic. The books,” I murmured. “Sir Gareth has a far more interesting collection in his study, actually. I found a first printing of Jonathon Livingston Seagull there.”

She shot me a glance to see if I was teasing, and seemed perplexed when she couldn’t tell. “Really? That’s very . . .”

“Weird,” I supplied. “Yes, but he’s actually deep down inside . . . a hippie.”

That made one of her elegant eyebrows go up. “No.”

“Yes. I also found copies of Trout Fishing in America, The Electric Acid Kool-Aid Test, and the Freak Brothers Omnibus. I suspect he knows how to play a sitar, and may even have Birkenstocks in his armoire upstairs.”

“I . . . simply cannot imagine that our elegant and urbane host was ever a flower child,” she murmured, cocking her head and playing along. “He’s very sophisticated.”

“Come have a look,” I offered, pointing to the French doors that I knew led to Sir Gareth’s study. “He was going to let me borrow his copy of Stranger in a Strange Land anyway.”

I pulled open the doors, adding. “I’ll leave them ajar, so he’ll know we’re in there.”

“Are you sure?” she asked, looking beyond me but not actually moving. 

“Of course; I borrow books from him all the time,” I admitted. “Prerogative of friends.”


	4. Chapter 4

I stepped in, and looked back, giving her a little nod, and went to the desk to turn on the beautiful lamp there, allowing her time to make up her mind. Sir Gareth’s study was a beautiful room, octagon in shape, with five walls filled with bookcases and three with large windows overlooking the garden. I drifted to the nearest case and let myself get lost in the titles, but a part of me was aware of Samantha slowly wandering in to join me. For a little while we both studied different cases, occasionally reaching out to touch a leather spine.

Then she gave a little pleased sound—a lovely sound, really—and pulled a tome down. “Granita Munro! Oh I haven’t read anything of hers since I was a girl! What on earth would Sir Gareth be doing with this?”

“I told you; an interesting collection. Mind the tarantula by the way.”

She looked up and caught sight of Mauta in her tank on the stand by the desk. “Oh.”

“I’m sorry, I completely forgot about her. You’re not frightened of spiders are you?” Chagrined, I moved to block the way, but Samantha shifted around me and leaned over to look in the glass.   
“Beautiful specimen of a golden-knee,” she murmured, and gave the impression she wanted to lift the lid.

I laid a hand on it with reluctance. “I wouldn’t; she’s been known to jump.”

“Good for her,” came the approving reply, and then we both heard footsteps at the door. Danny Holloway peered around, and smiled when he saw us.

“Excuse me, but is this where the brilliant people collect? I’ve only just managed to get away from some literary lightweight trying to foist his poetry on me. Free verse that could do with some hard time in a thesaurus.”

“I’ll see you and raise you . . . Beebe,” I replied, watching him shudder dramatically as he came over to join us.

“Gah, looks like we’re _both_ seeking sanctuary, then. Of course, if I’m interrupting . . .” He trailed off, looking at Samantha, and I felt myself bristle a tiny bit.

“Not at all,” Samantha murmured and held out her hand. “I’m Samantha López-Campbell, with Bio-Global.”

“I’m Danny Holloway, with myriad affiliations. Is, er, Matthew your husband then?” He asked, shooting me a quick look. Danny knows my ethics when it comes to personal relationships.

“He’s my _brother,_ ” Samantha corrected quickly. “So that’s three of us seeking sanctuary.”

Danny nodded, and shoved his hands in his pockets, ruining the lines of his suit. “So I was right; the brilliant people ARE here. Planning on letting Mauta out to scare off the riff-raff?”

“Sir Gareth would never forgive us, particularly since we’ve already put a bit of a crease in his evening,” I replied, catching Danny’s quick smirk in return. Samantha glanced at each of us, aware of the undertone but not understanding it until Danny spoke up.

“We—Seb and I—had a bit of a mix-up with Sir Gareth’s tailor. Wrong suits, inconvenient but not a complete cock-up. We’re not in his nibs’ good graces at the moment.”

“Ah,” she murmured, and gazed down again at Mauta. While she was doing so, Danny shot me a Meaningful look. I shot back a Not Now look and received an Oh That’s How It Is look in return.

Part of the reason he and I get along so well is that we can read each other with ease, and at the moment I was getting a bit uncomfortable with that. He gave a little harrumph and spoke up again, addressing Samantha. “I’m impressed you’re . . . relaxed around Mauta. Not many people are.”

She looked up at him. “One of my best friends had a tarantula, so I’m familiar with them. He used to trade me laundry tokens for crickets, back at school.”

“Ah. And you just . . . happened to have crickets?” I asked, confused.

“I did. I was in charge of the specimen lab and thus the general flunky for cleaning cages, feeding the animals and managing the inventory of supplies. Some of the better days of my life,” she murmured and then stopped, as if she thought better of saying too much. 

“ _I_ started out mucking stalls at Epsom Downs,” Danny admitted, “so I probably could have used a few of those laundry tokens myself, back in the day.”

“ _Could_ have?” I shot back, only to get a wry snort from him. Danny has always favored the tweedy sports jacket and turtleneck look; the urban alternative for a Villain, and although he carries it off, sometimes he overdoes the cologne.

“Now, now,” Samantha interjected softly. “Play nicely, gentlemen.”

I think _that_ was when I found myself feeling that first welcome frisson of affection for her above and beyond the superficial. There was something so gentle and yet so kind in her tone, an inclusive intimacy that put a little extra joy in the moment. 

I would have said something but just then the door opened again and this time the unwelcome face of Matthew López-Campbell peered around the door. I saw Samantha stiffen, and I moved towards her without even thinking about it.

“Figures you’d be looking at books. I need you out here to talk to some people,” he muttered, giving a nod to Danny and me. “Gentlemen.”

Samantha sighed and I watched her square her shoulders as she moved off towards her lout of a brother. “Mr. Holloway, nice to meet you; Mr. Slay, a pleasure . . .” 

We watched her leave, and when the door closed behind her, Danny swung toward me, caught between a grin and a look of concern. “Well. _She’s_ the better half of that pair, that’s for sure.”

“Agreed,” I wanted to go to the door and look out but that would have given away too much of my interest, so instead, I sat down at the desk and forced myself to relax. Danny, however, wasn’t fooled, and leaned against one of the bookcases, crossing his arms and watching me. We didn’t speak for a few minutes, waiting each other out, and the weight of his curiosity felt like bricks on my chest.

Stiff upper lip, stiff upper lip . . . 

“Your auntie is going to be chuffed.”

I turned to give him a cold stare. “I don’t know what you mean.”

“Oh I think you do. How many years have I known you, Seb? Ten? Twelve?” He asked me, and continued without waiting for my reply. “And in all the time I’ve known you, I’ve seen _every_ version of your fake charm—the elegant prince version, the effete bright boy, the shy poof—all variations whipped up to keep birds at a distance. But tonight—"

“—was a new version,” I bluffed.

“— _Tonight_ ,” Danny continued, smiling, “was the first time you’ve ever let a little real _interest_ show. You were chatting her up, mate, and when I came in you weren’t happy about that at all.”

“I was . . . cultivating her. As a source of information,” I added, aware of Danny’s lifted eyebrow. “She works for her brother, and anything I can get on him is worth it.”

“Oi, he’s a piece of . . . work, all right, but it’s _not_ your usual style to invite a pretty woman off for a tête-á-tête, lad.”

“Who says I invited her?” I muttered defensively. Being teased wasn’t comfortable, particularly by Danny, who truly does know me well.

He shook his head in mock-sadness. “Every one of your three tells says you did, and besides, I _watched_ you do it from across the room. Seems nice, by-the-by; a bit plump for _my_ taste but smart and certainly has her brother’s number.”

“She’s _not_ . . .” I blurted, and then caught myself because while Danny was grinning, his gaze was kind. I would have said more, but someone else came into the room and I guiltily got to my feet.

“You two,” Sir Gareth growled, “are _not_ in my good graces at the moment.”

Danny and I both glanced at our host’s trouser hems, which were neat, but to the trained eye, a bit long. He harrumphed, shot us each a death glare, and crossed his arms. “Once this party is done, we shall meet formally, but before then I want it clearly stated that this sort of nonsense is over. I won’t have you two larking about on Saville Row terrorizing Mr. Cedric a moment longer; the man’s already a bundle of nerves as it is.”

“Fair enough,” Danny sighed, “although I won’t say it hasn’t been fun because it has. It truly has.”

“Agreed,” I added, trying not to smirk. 

Sir Gareth gave us each a last sour look and beckoned us back to the party.

*** *** ***

_Samantha_

By about the third sentence it was clear to me that the two men had no idea what I was talking about, but were too polite, or too afraid to look stupid to ask questions. I should have been used to this, but even after all these years it still irked me. I finished up as quickly as I could, excused myself, and began to make my way towards the vestibule, hoping I could grab my coat and leave without Matthew noticing.

He was talking to another group, and I could tell by his level of animation that he’d probably had at least two glasses of champagne more than he normally does, which also told me he was celebrating.

So my brother had either gotten another investor interested, or he’d gotten some news that pleased him—neither of which would help my being able to leave the party. I kept an eye on him and edged around the room, moving slowly. Most people got out of my way, and the few I had to maneuver around were gracious, so I was on the verge of congratulating myself when I heard someone speaking a little over the noise of the crowd.

“I just heard that Thorpe’s selling his entire _company_ to him. Didn’t even put up a fuss, which isn’t like old Nigel at all. Especially to an overseas investor.”

Nigel Thorpe . . . he was one of the people Matthew had talked to a few months ago, owner of Silvershine Pharmaceuticals. I remembered him, a little wizened man who had told my brother off, using several brusque and Anglo-Saxon words. Matthew had been furious, swearing he’d get even and acquire the company any way he could. At the time I hadn’t paid much attention, particularly since I’d been savoring my brother’s embarrassment, but now I hesitated a moment, trying to listen in without looking like I was listening in.

“An overseas investor?” came the question.

“Yes,” the speaker grimaced. “Comes across all cheerful but he’d as soon chew your throat out if you cross him. Spotted the man here tonight and I’ve had a devil of a time avoiding the blighter.”

“Pushy, is he?”

“As an icy north wind,” the speaker grunted, and then caught me looking at him. Blushing, I turned away and continued heading to the door, wondering if the man had been speaking about Matthew. It would make perfect sense, actually, coupled with what I knew of my brother.

I managed to slip away without being spotted, and headed out of the long driveway, thinking back to my time in Sir Gareth’s library with Sebastian Slay. Easily that had been the highlight of the evening, and although he was probably being kind, I still enjoyed it very much.

Which was a bit of a problem, if he was going to be working with my brother.

Still, it had been fun, and even when the other gentleman had come in and joined us, I’d had a better time in Sir Gareth’s library than I had out in the crowded living room. Hell, a better time than I’d had in a few weeks if I was being honest with myself. London was a huge city, and while I’d managed to make a few friends, it was still a bit much for me occasionally and I missed being in sunnier climes.

Once home I slipped out of my clothing and into a bath, luxuriating in the sunken tub. My place may not be particularly lovely, but there are a few amenities and this tub was definitely one of them. My phone was on vibrate, and I watched it shiver across the floor, well-aware it would be my brother.

“Mañana,” I hissed at the device. “I _did_ what you asked, and I’m going to bed.” I dried myself off and followed through, because I was both tired and annoyed; sleep always helped me through those.

_Sebastian_

After Samantha and all the other guests had departed Sir Gareth’s gathering, the true meeting began, centering as it usually did in Sir Gareth’s enormous kitchen. I’m sure it seems strange that we didn’t hold our Triad in his study, or in the enormous drawing room, but there you have it. Sir Gareth was fond of cooking, and generally would whip up something to nosh on while we discussed the fate of world leaders, or talked about arms deals or the price of importing contraband cigarettes.

I usually took one of the tall bar stools while Danny either leaned against a wall or when feeling particularly cheeky, would sit on one of the counters. Sir Gareth would be creating omelets or bacon sarnies, looking more like some ancient valet than a Villain, but he was sharp, even with a whisk in his hand.

“I’m sure you’ve both heard about Thorpe leaving Silvershine,” he spoke up, shooting a look from me to Danny. “Any thoughts?”

“Nigel was due to take a pension,” Danny shrugged. “Should have years ago in fact.”

“But unlikely to,” I pointed out. We were all aware of Nigel Thorpe’s personality, having dealt with him over the years.

“Precisely,” Sir Gareth agreed, “which is all the more troubling. If he’d been considering retirement, we’d have heard about it before this—at least one of us would have. And there’s more.”

“Oh?” Danny was more interested in the food than the conversation, but he looked to Sir Gareth politely.

“Thorpe _sold_ the company instead of leaving it to his nephew.”

“What?” I hadn’t heard about that aspect either, and from Danny’s expression neither he had he. This didn’t bode well if a business deal of that size could happen without our knowledge. 

Sir Gareth slowly nodded and I could tell he was pleased to have gotten our full attention. “Yes, _very_ out of character. I’ve got people looking into it, but I wanted you both to be on the alert. Now, Danny, what’s your report?”

Danny pushed himself away from the wall and ambled over, hands deep in his pockets. “Profits are good from the dens, although there have been some issues with local troublemakers at two of them. I’ve done a carrot and stick to get matters back in line. Speaking of on-line, we’ve snapped up some lucrative domains for on-line gambling from Montreal and Dubai, which means I’m hiring, so profit will reflect that. Oh, and Alison’s viola recital is in two weeks; she told me to remind you both.”

I smirked and nodded. Alison Holloway was eleven, going on thirty, and had her father wrapped around her finger. Fortunately she was also a good-natured girl who didn’t take advantage of him too often, so it was easy to grant a request like this one.

Sir Gareth pulled out his cell phone and made a note of the date. “What time?”

“Four thirty. There’ll be a tea afterwards.”

“Lovely,” Sir Gareth gave us one of his rare smiles, and then looked at me. “Sebastian, report?”

“I’ve been hired by Matthew López-Campbell of Bio-Global to upgrade his security systems,” I told my colleagues nonchalantly. “I’m also collecting data from Heathrow and all entry ports with an eye to charting the trends of confiscations, search patterns and detentions.”

“The latter is going to be useful; the former is . . . interesting. What’s López-Campbell like?” Sir Gareth asked, popping a tray of savory tarts into the oven.

“Arrogant,” I offered, “Definitely that. But he’s cunning as well, and certainly seems determined in whatever he sets his mind to.”

“He’s a wanker,” Danny muttered. “All his party chat consisted of were soliloquies about his personal greatness and attempts to kiss arse. And I wasn’t too impressed with how he treated his sister either.”

“Yes,” I agreed. Something in the way I replied made Sir Gareth look up at me and I had to give a shrug to de-emphasize it. “She works for him; we stopped by her lab when López-Campbell gave me a tour.”

“Seb here also gave _her_ a tour of your library,” Danny tattled, grinning. “She even liked Mauta.”

“Was she the young woman with the opal brooch?” Sir Gareth wanted to know. “Bit reticent, that one—anything like her brother?”

“The complete opposite,” I said, trying hard not to look at either Danny or Sir Gareth. “She’s the brains of the company.”

“Hmmmm,” Sir Gareth replied, moving utensils to the dishwasher. “Sounds to me as if she might be the bellweather for Bio-Global then, and worth cultivating.”

“I nominate Seb for the job,” came Danny’s cheeky response. I shot him a dirty look that completely failed to intimidate him.

“It would be expedient, since he’s already dealing with the company,” Sir Gareth murmured, and looked at me. “Agreed?”

I nodded, trying not to let anything show in my expression while Danny snorted and came around to try and peek in the oven. Sir Gareth smoothly coiled the kitchen towel in his hands and snapped it, nearly hitting the end of Danny’s nose. “Ah-ah.”

Danny jerked back, but grinned. “Yes sir.”

“They’ll be out soon enough. Now, I’ve had some information about some robberies in the Ukraine, and some missing rockets out of China. My associates think they might be coming through Europe soon, possibly our way. Please keep alert for any mention of either of them. Who needs more wine?”

We enjoyed the asparagus and cheese tarts, and after the three of us ended the meeting, I headed back to London, wondering how best to insinuate myself into Bio-Global’s routine. I had access to much more than I should have, thanks to López-Campbell’s foolishness, but passwords and day-to-day documents weren’t what I was after.

Not entirely. Sir Gareth and Danny had concerns about the company, and I knew _I_ was expected to figure out what was going on. No, the trickier part would be how to deal with Samantha, who was still a bit of an unknown entity in all this; she might detest her brother, but blood ties were hard to cut.

I turned from this depressing thought and concentrated instead on our time in the library, allowing a bit of fantasy to color it into a liaison I’d never be able to share with anyone except Mr. Slowpoke, who wouldn’t be interested anyway. By the time I arrived home I was smiling, and went to straight to bed.


	5. Chapter 5

_Samantha_

The next morning I slept in, savoring my weekend. I’d intended to treat myself to time at the spa, and later, take a walk through the park but those plans went on hold when I spotted a text message from Mohammad Fatah, my associate in the lab. He knew never to text me on the weekend unless it was an emergency, and I responded to his _‘Urgent, Sam, contact me ASAP’_ message with a phone call.

“Sam, thank you for getting back to me,” he rumbled as I carried the phone to the kitchen. “I know security changes are coming and that we’re supposed to cooperate, but did you authorize anyone to go into the vault? Because the time clock is running slow, and we have some . . . specimens missing.”

I took a breath. “What?”

“Three vials of formula twelve, and the one of. . .”

“Thirty-seven? _Tell_ me it wasn’t--” I said, but I knew before Mohammad confirmed it.

“The thirty-seven,” he sighed. “Simon Says. I’ve looked all through the vault, I’ve looked everywhere else here but right now all I can tell you is they’re gone. So you _didn’t_ authorize it.”

“If I had, you _know_ I would have sent you a clearance copy,” I reminded him as I abandoned my breakfast and started looking for my purse. “I’ll be right in. Have you told my brother?”

“No, I wanted to check with you before I did that,” Mohammad admitted. “On the off-chance you’d moved them. Should I?”

“Not yet,” I told him. “Stay put, I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

This was bad. _Disastrously_ bad, and I tried to calm myself on the way. Deep down I had a suspicion that I hoped to hell wouldn’t be confirmed once I got in. Having the twelves gone was embarrassing, but they were minor stuff. The thirty-seven—nicknamed Simon Says-- had the potential to become a full-blown disaster for Bio-Global.

Only a handful of people knew what Simon Says could do, and I could eliminate four out of the six—Mohammad, myself, Edna Flynn and Peter DeGault were sure to be in the clear. The other two though . . .

I pulled into the garage, hurried to the private elevator and tried to compose myself on the ride down—hard to do in jeans and a sweatshirt, but once I was there, Mohammad met me in the hallway.

He looked grave, and I saw in his gaze that he had some suspicions too; I fell into step with him. “Tania?”

“In Ibiza,” Mohammad told me. “Visiting her sister and the new baby, remember?”

I nodded, adding, “That’s confirmed?”

“Yes. I checked in with DeGault and Flynn without telling them anything. Edna clocked out just after one, and Peter around three.”

“And none of them mentioned the . . . misplacements?” I sighed, making my way into the lab and to the vault. 

“They weren’t working anywhere near the vault,” Mohammad murmured. “Tania did, but she’s out of the country.”

“ _Now._ She could have taken them _before_ then,” I pointed out, peering into the vault and not finding the miracle I’d been hoping for. “All right, so first priority—you and I need to re-create Simon Says, and bump up our leads on the counter-agent pronto, that’s our imperative.”

“I thought you’d say that,” my colleague nodded, “so I’ve already gotten started. What about security, and your brother?”

“I’ll contact the new security person _first_ , and go with his advice,” I replied, pulling out my phone. “This isn’t going to be fun.”

I fished out the newest card from my Rolodex, and before I knew it, I had Sebastian on the line. At any other time I’d be a bit tongue-tied, but with an emergency in the making, I was efficient. “Mr. Slay? Samantha López-Campbell here. I have an alarming situation at my lab, and I need your advice.”

To his credit he didn’t sound ruffled or upset at being called early on a Saturday. “I’d rather you called me Sebastian, or Seb,” he told me. “How can I help?”

“Fair enough, call me Samantha,” I replied. “There’s been an in-house theft here at Bio-Global and I’d appreciate your input.”

“I’ll be _right_ there,” Sebastian replied, and I heard a sharper note in his tone. “Touch nothing if possible and write down as many details as you can.”

Before I could say a word more, he hung up on me, but I appreciated how seriously he seemed to be taking the matter, and looked at Mohammad.

“Write it all down; as much as you can remember,” I instructed him. “I’m going to look over your layout for Simon Says. Back in a few.”

By the time Sebastian arrived, I had the third step completed of the sixteen necessary to re-create compound thirty-seven. I met him down in the lobby, where Harold, our ancient security guard let him in. Even though the situation was serious, I couldn’t help but think that Mr. Slay looked rather nice—dark green textured sweater, black jeans, boots. He also had an attaché in his grip, and shifted it to shake hands with me.

“Samantha,” he murmured, and I felt myself relax a bit.

“Sebastian. Follow me.”

In the elevator, he flashed me a quick smile. “Do you always work on Saturdays?”

I glanced down at my lab coat. “Actually no—I came in when Doctor Fatah called with the news.”

He nodded, and followed me out to the lab, where we found Mohammad finishing up the second page of a legal pad. I introduced Sebastian to him and got down to business.

“Four vials of compounds are missing; three are for a formula that promotes healing, and the other one is . . . a bit more complicated.”

Sebastian had pulled out a tablet and was rapidly typing into it. “Can you _un_ -complicate it, please?”

“Foremost it’s a stress inhibitor; stops the hormonal cascade from the adrenal medulla even under the heaviest flight or fight scenarios,” I began, “but on top of that, it also chemically alters the brain in such a way that any suggestion made to someone under its influence is automatically accepted and assimilated. We nicknamed it Simon Says, because it’s a chemical version of--”

“—Mind control,” Sebastian finished, looking grim for a moment. “Lovely. And here I thought you were the _nice_ one in your family.”

“She _is_ ,” Mohammad defended me stoutly. “She locked the formula away and made sure nobody outside of the lab knew about it!”

“I’m not always nice,” I growled, “but I know better than to let something like this out of the bag. Just because we _created_ Simon Says doesn’t mean it was ever supposed to see the light of day, Sebastian—that’s why it was locked up in the vault.”

“So why not simply dispose of it and be done?” he wanted to know. 

“Because if we hold the patent, we can keep other companies from manufacturing it,” I pointed out. “Look, I know the ethics seem shady to you, but it’s best for all concerned that we find out who took the sample as quickly as possible.” To Mohammad I added, “Step three is done; would you please check the temperatures?”

When he stepped out, I looked at Sebastian and sighed. “You need to know—I suspect my brother.”

“So do I,” Sebastian replied. “ _And_ all of your colleagues here, and possibly you yourself, distressing as that thought is to me. My experiences have taught me to consider everyone until eliminated by credible proof.”

“Fair enough,” I nodded. “What do you need from me? Passwords? Access to records?”

He tapped on his tablet, shooting me a quick glance. “Already have them—remind me to have a long chat with your IT department later today, will you? All right, the security logs are here . . . how far back should I start looking? When was the last time you remember seeing the samples or the inside of your vault?”

Step by step we went through the digital recordings, starting three days earlier—Wednesday—and took notes. It was funny to see our initial meeting on tape, and I smirked all over again at seeing my brother react to Sebastian’s fluent Spanish.

“This should be saved for posterity,” I murmured, and Sebastian grinned too.

“I admit I enjoyed pinning his ears back. So far nothing particularly suspicious . . . do you trust your team?”

“Implicitly. Well . . . everyone except the one person who’s not in the country at the moment: Tania Fletcher.”

“Then she’ll be the thread I’ll follow.”

So for the next few hours I worked with Mohammad while Sebastian did whatever it was he did on his tablet. He didn’t stay at the work table either—he wandered around, draped himself over counters and lounged like some hipster college student as he did so. It was a little startling to see him so . . . relaxed, particularly in my lab. He gave the impression of a tomcat familiarizing himself with a new house—not quite scent-marking things, but establishing himself as a comfortable presence everywhere. Part of me was a bit annoyed at this, and another part was simply amused.

Mohammad for _his_ part was confused. “Is he really the head of BlackGuard? Seems more like . . . well I’m not sure _what_ he’s more like, but he doesn’t quite look like a CEO.”

I gave a shrug. “Casual, I know, but it IS a Saturday and short notice as well.”

In truth I didn’t mind quite as much as I would have under other circumstances, if only because I sensed that I had an ally against my brother.

_Sebastian_

Naturally Samantha’s early morning call threw me for a loop. I managed to sound both alert and casual—both more difficult than usual, given that I was somewhat tumescent during my side of conversation—but I managed to reassure her that I would be glad to come in, particularly when I heard about the break-in. It sounded suspicious as hell to me, particularly in light of her brother’s recent acquisition.

I threw on something less than formal, but I was concerned with speed over style and managed to make to Bio-Global in record time—something Danny would have laughed about I’m sure. The first thing I realized was that security—at least the physical component—was sorely in need of an upgrade. There was no excuse for the lack of it, and I put overhauling the guard protocol on the list of items to Take Care Of in the Immediate Future.

Samantha was distraught but not over-wrought, which was good. She told me what was missing and who was connected to the samples in question without any hesitation. I watched her carefully and talked to the other scientist, Doctor Mohammad Fatah, letting myself focus on their actions as well as their words. They rang true, and privately I felt I could cross the two of them off my list of suspects.

That meant looking at the small circle immediately connected with the lab, so I began pulling together travel records, personal email files, texts and other assorted electronic information on the four other people who might have taken the samples. I eliminated Flynn and DeGault easily, but the other two were linked. I found emails between them at odd hours, and although their contents looked innocuous, there had to be a pattern to them that I wanted to figure out.

Unfortunately I had trouble concentrating, and my stomach growled rather loudly in the quiet of the lab. Samantha heard it, and I blushed.

“Sorry, I skipped breakfast,” I admitted.

“And it’s nearly twelve-thirty now,” she countered. “We need a break, all of us. I know a place down the street that’s good, if you appreciate Indian cuisine.”

I nodded, already considering what to get; I’m fond of vindaloo, but not many places make it hot enough for my taste. 

“I’ll stay,” Doctor Fatah offered, “We’re nearly done recreating the thirty-seven, so I’ll do the twelves while you’re out.”

“What can we bring back for you?” Samantha asked, which I thought was considerate of her.

“Any curry without pork,” he replied, “mild, please. And thank you.”

“Lock up behind us,” I told Doctor Fatah, “I know you would anyway, but as of today, we’re going to stricter compliance.”

He nodded, watching us leave through the glass of the lab door, his expression serious. I appreciated that, and considered calling in every fifteen minutes while we were out as an extra precaution. 

Samantha seemed somber as well, and when we reached the street, she looked back doubtfully. “I feel bad leaving him behind,” she confessed.

“We won’t stay long,” I told her, and tried to smile. “So, where are we headed?”

“Handoo’s Kitchen,” she waved the way. “I discovered them the first week I was in London and I’ve been going there at least once a week since. I hope you were serious about Indian.”

I laid a hand on my chest. “You’re talking to a man who _adores_ phal.”

It was delightful to hear her laugh; she tossed her hair back and shot me a look of amused respect. “Oh dear, Ajit and Malak are going to love you then!”

The restaurant was a small one, tucked between a stationary store and a mobile shop on the corner of the block. The scent of spices drifted our way as we approached, and I felt my stomach rumble again in anticipation. When we stepped in, a tiny woman scurried over to us, arms outstretched to Samantha for a hug.

“Sahmontha!” came the cheery chirp. “A joy to see you my dear! Malak! Malak, look who is here!”

From another direction came a tall and very dignified man with a huge white mustache. He beamed at us and shook Samantha’s hand before politely shaking mine. “Dear Sahmontha!” he murmured and introduced himself. “I am Malak Handoo and this is my vife Ajit, sir.”

“Sebastian Slay; charmed to meet you. Samantha tells me your food is amazing,” I replied. At this the man’s smile crept around the edges of his mustache and his wife hid her face with one hand, grinning.

“She is too kind, too kind,” the man murmured, ushering us to a table at one of the bay windows.

“It’s true though—nobody does palak paneer like you do,” Samantha chided him sweetly.

Malak gave a modest shrug. “My mother taught me vell. Let me bring you water and I shall be back.” 

When he had gone, I glanced at the menu, intrigued by the items listed, and trying to relax. Samantha seemed a little nervous herself, but she reached over and pointed to one of the entries on my laminated card.

“Their butter chicken is a double win—good the first time hot, and good the next day cold,” she told me, and added, “but I don’t suppose _you_ have to worry about that sort of thing.”

“Sometimes I do. I’ve been known to pack myself a tiffin, especially when the hours run over on a job,” I admitted sheepishly. “I’m rubbish at cooking for myself.”

“For one can be hard . . . if you don’t have someone else at home. Ah, unless you do. Sorry, sorry, didn’t mean to pry,” she muttered, going pink.

“I don’t,” I assured her quickly. “Not with the work hours I currently have. The party at Sir Gareth’s was the first time I’ve been out in months.”

Better to have her think I was a workaholic; that was much more acceptable than my social deficiencies and true vocation.

“It was fun,” she brightened. “I liked your associate, Mr. Holloway.”

“Danny,” I sighed, “is the salt of the earth.”

Mr. Handoo returned then with water, and took our orders. I had already spotted an offering listed at the bottom of the menu and after Samantha had requested her butter chicken, I announced I wanted the phal. 

Malak Handoo eyed me with concern. “Are you _quite_ sure, sir? It’s extremely hot.”

“Yes,” I nodded. “And a tall glass of milk, please.”

Apparently that last bit reassured him, and he gave us both a quick bow, a little smile lingering at the corners of his mouth. “Excellent then.”

As he headed off, I looked at Samantha, who was grinning herself. “You’ve impressed him. And if you make it through the meal, you’ll impress _me_.”

“It’s good to have goals,” I replied, enjoying her laugh.


	6. Chapter 6

_Samantha_

Lunch was . . . lovely. I’m so used to eating by myself that whenever I’m with someone else it usually becomes a nightmare of self-consciousness, but somehow Sebastian set me at ease. I’m not sure how or why, but I found myself relaxing in his company. Certainly the Handoos were delighted with him, particularly when he ordered the phal, and made it clear he was looking forward to it. His face did go pink from the first bite, but he carefully alternated forkfuls with sips of milk. I spotted both Malak and Ajit watching from the kitchen doorway, waiting no doubt to call an ambulance if needed, but after a few minutes I think they realized he really did enjoy it.

And that pleased me too. Good cooking is good cooking, even if it’s something I don’t usually order, and the Handoos were wonderful with food.

“Thank you,” Sebastian murmured to me. “This is amazing; I will _have_ to add them to my list of regular lunch places.”

“Thank you for not choking and flailing all over the floor,” I responded. “It’s official; I am impressed.”

He laughed, a little chuckle that warmed me to hear simply because it was genuine. “Then I am vindicated. So . . . what’s a brilliant woman like you doing working for your brother?”

It was on the tip of my tongue to give another glib answer, but I checked myself. Sebastian Slay had treated me courteously, had come out at a moment’s notice and had made it clear that he took the lab thefts seriously—he deserved the truth.

“Matthew owns the controlling shares of the company,” I shrugged. “He lets me run my own lab, develop my own projects. But,” I added, “I’ve been ready to call it quits for some time. I used to be disappointed in him; now, I’m becoming afraid of him.”

Sebastian nodded. “Fair enough. Tell me; do you think your brother’s responsible for these thefts?”

I squirmed a bit, dragging my fork around my plate before answering. “Yes,” I admitted slowly. “That sounds terrible, but he’s the only one with access and motivation. My team knows about the compounds but they’re too ethical to use them for gain or power.”

“Except Tania, possibly,” Sebastian murmured, and I nodded.

“Tania has money issues,” I sighed. “She’s supporting her sister who just had a baby, and I suppose I should have been suspicious when she asked for time off to go visit her, since she JUST complained about being broke.”

“I’ve found some emails linking her to your brother,” Sebastian told me in a thoughtful voice. “They seem innocuous, but they may be using a code.”

“It’s highly suspicious, but not proof,” I concurred. “My bigger fear right now is what he’s done or is doing with the formulas.”

“If your Simon Says formula works as you say it does, I suspect your brother may have already used it on Nigel Thorpe of Silvershine Pharmaceuticals,” Sebastian told me softly, “an associate of Sir Gareth’s who’s recently acted extremely out of character. I’m going to check through Bio-Global’s acquisition records and see if Silvershine is among the listings.”

I fought a wince. “I’m sure it is. If my brother has, he’ll need to be reported, and Mr. Thorpe should be seen by a doctor. We haven’t found any dangerous side effects to the use of the formula, but there’s at least one that’s notable.”

“And that would be . . . ?” Sebastian asked, finishing the last of his phal.

“Green urine,” I admitted. “Neon green, in fact.”

Sebastian choked a little; I could tell he was trying not to laugh. “Well that _will_ make it easier to determine if Mr. Thorpe’s been dosed. Is the formula . . . temporary?”

“It lingers for about a week, losing power over time. At least, it appears to; we haven’t really been able to test it on much more than rabbits.”

We finished our meals in a sober mood and it startled me to realize that I was much less nervous around Sebastian than I normally would have been. As a large woman, I’m continually self-conscious about eating in public, and extremely so in a personal setting like this, but for the moment things were . . . easy. I didn’t know if it was because we were able to talk, or if it was because we were in a place I knew well, but in any case I felt a pang of regret when the lunch ended.

Sebastian picked up the carry-out order for Mohammad, and we headed back, discussing how to confront Matthew.

“There are no security cameras beyond the lifts,” Sebastian grumbled looking up at Bio-Global when we reached the building, “and these outside ones are rubbish. My guess is that they were original equipment and haven’t been upgraded at all.”

“And your guess would be right,” I sighed. “The whole reason my brother hired BlackGuard was to get things up to par, and I hate to say it, but stealing things from the lab _before_ your people get to work fits right in with his style.”

“You think he’s done it before?” Sebastian asked me as we waited to be buzzed into the lobby. 

Harold was taking his time getting to us.

“He’s stolen from me before,” I admitted, “but years ago-- nothing from the lab, and nothing of significance.”

Sebastian pursed his mouth as the door finally opened for us. Harold was yawning as we passed by his booth. “Sorry about that Doctor . . . guess my age is catching up to me.”

“Not good,” my companion muttered as we got into the elevator.

I defended Harold. “He’s only here on the weekends and he’s one of the nice ones.”

“But he’s not one of the quick ones, and I sincerely doubt he’s one of the trained ones,” came Sebastian’s reply. “Sorry, but he didn’t even ask to see your badge, or my identification—that’s huge in terms of security.”

I harrumphed, irked because he was right, and had been so gentle about it. We rode downward in silence, and right before the doors opened, Sebastian spoke again, his voice slightly anxious. “I’m not suggesting giving him the boot, you know. He’d need some updated training, that’s all.”

I turned to look at him. Look up at him since he was a bit taller than I was, and the man actually looked worried. “You’re right, and it just annoys me that you are. Yes, Harold and the entire security office will probably need re-training but before today I hadn’t even realized it, that’s all.”

“All right then,” he replied, and gave me a small smile. The elevator came to a stop and we headed to the lab. I scanned us in and we stepped through, but it felt strange.

“Mohammad?” I called, setting down my purse. “Got your curry. How are things going?”

Sebastian cocked his head and shot me a look. I moved, heading down the hall to peek into each of the alcoves. Nothing. Looked in the specimen rooms. A few rats looked back, but no-one else was there. I turned back and pulled out my phone. “Seems to have stepped out.”

“Hmmm,” was all he said, and motioned with his chin. “The vault? The laboratory where you two were re-doing your formula?”

I twirled and moved, feeling a sense of panic now. On the table, the lab had the three vials of number twelve slotted into the rack, but our freshly prepared vial of thirty-seven wasn’t with them. I nearly collided with Sebastian and ducked around him to the vault. Even before my fingers touched the door, I saw it was ajar.

“Shit,” I blurted. “Not again!”

No, no, there it was.

I spotted the vial rack tucked away next to the temperature dial and picked it up, feeling relief flood through me.

I felt Sebastian lean over my shoulder. “Samantha,” he said again, and then his hands lightly gripped my upper arms. “Sleeping guard, no colleague about . . . we’re getting out of here. _Now._ ”

I pocketed the vial and tried to protest, but he steered me around and out, speaking softly. “We’re going to the garage, your car’s there, right?”

I nodded, moving slowly, and reached to snag my purse. It fell on the floor, and as we both looked down we spotted a badge.

Mohammad’s.

It could have gotten there in a dozen innocent ways, but I knew that Mohammad was never that careless. Never.

I drew in a breath, but Sebastian pushed me forward before I could say anything. “Now,” he hissed again, and we clattered our way through the door. It closed behind us, and Sebastian turned me away from the elevator, towards the stairs.

I moved, even as I tried to think of why Mohammad’s badge would be there, and my mind kept trying to fill in silly scenarios. He’d dropped it, he went to the bathroom and left it behind . . . all sorts of nonsense that tried to keep me from the darker possibilities. We climbed the concrete steps, and when we reached the door for the garage, Sebastian halted me, and then slowly opened the door, peering around it.

“What do you drive?” he asked, and his voice had lost any hint of lightness now.

“The blue Corsa,” I replied, still clutching the curry. “What are we doing?”

“We are taking precautions,” he told me, and motioned for me to stay put. “Trust me please. I’ll just be a moment.”

By now the adrenaline was flowing and I nodded tightly, peeking out from the doorway as I watched Sebastian cross the nearly empty parking level to my car. He circled it, bent down behind it, and disappeared for a moment.

I had no idea what the hell he was doing, but when he popped back up he looked a bit grim. He strode back to me and drew in a breath. “We’ll take my car.”

“What? Why?” I wanted to know even as I didn’t want to know. When a security expert doesn’t want to drive in your car, nasty ideas come to mind.

“Because it’s faster and closer,” he told me, pointing to the Jag parked on the near end of the garage.

I let him herd me into it, and when we accelerated out of the garage I barely had time to buckle myself in when I heard a rumble of another car coming in. We zipped out the other exit, Sebastian pulled out into the street, and then began grimly weaving through traffic at a speed that made my lunch lurch inside me. 

“Okay, I need answers—what the hell is going on?”

“I don’t know yet, but I have some theories,” he said, checking the rear view mirror. “They’re not very nice ones. I hope you weren’t fond of that Corsa, by the by. It’s going to be confiscated very soon.”

“Why?”

“Because someone’s put a sophisticated tracking device under your front bumper. I’m sorry, Samantha, but we need to get you to safety and the sooner the better.”

The strangest thing was that I absolutely believed him. I hadn’t known Sebastian Slay long, but deep inside I realized he was telling me the truth. A strange, slow panic hit me. Why?”

“Because someone wants to know where you are and where you go,” he muttered. “You’re going to report that your car’s been stolen.”

“But it’s not—"

“Not yet. It’s going to be, however, and found far from Bio-Global. In the meantime, we’re going somewhere safe.”

“But Zoth,” I burbled, not making any sense. “My fish!”

“Fish?”

So I managed to explain, and although Sebastian didn’t look happy about it, we drove to my apartment in a detour I promised would only take a few minutes.

My door was unlocked. Closed, but unlocked, and as I stood there, Sebastian gently nudged me aside and turned the knob, moving the door open a few inches. Nothing happened, and he squatted low, peering around. “Ah.”

“Ah what?” I whispered, not sure I could take any more surprises.

“You’ve been searched,” he told me, and opened the door wide.

It wasn’t trashed, the way you see it in the movies, but I still felt sick as I saw how carelessly my things had been moved, shoved, pushed aside. The desk drawers were half-open, and two of the kitchen cupboards were left unlatched. I took a breath and hurried to Zoth’s snifter on the counter. He swam lazily, completely unconcerned, and my mood shifted to a mix of relief and annoyance. “Some evil overlord YOU are,” I snorted at him. Behind me I heard Sebastian moving into the kitchen and getting water. He handed me a glass.

“Shock,” he murmured kindly, urging me to drink. “Give yourself a moment and then tell me: was there anything here someone would want to steal? Anything of vital interest or importance?”

I took a long swallow, nodded, and made my way over to my desk, reaching for the _Kill Dolly_ novel among the stacks of books. I tugged the Velcro-ed spine down, flipped it open and held up the little hard drive hidden in the carved out interior.

Sebastian smiled at me. “You _clever_ woman.”

*** *** ***  
 _Sebastian_

I should have been more alert. I should have been on my guard against Matthew López-Campbell from the minute I’d heard about Nigel Thorpe selling out to Bio-Global, but in truth I hadn’t given him credit for enough cunning. He knew what that Simon Says could do; he knew there were only two people who could make it.

And he’d just kidnapped one of them.

Heartless.

Dangerous. If he was willing to snatch an employee, it meant nobody at Bio-Global was safe--especially his sister--and now that I was involved I was taking it personally. That meant the most important job of the moment making sure Samantha was out of his reach, something I needed to make her understand.

“Samantha,” I began, “I don’t think it would be a good idea if you remained here, not after an obvious break-in like this. Do you have anyone you can stay with in London?” 

She looked lost, and that Did Things to me. I cleared my throat. “I’ll tell you what--I’ll ring my aunt; she’s got a flat in the city I’m sure she’d let you use.”

Poor woman. I watched her gather up a few things, and while she did so, I made a discreet call on a private number to Danny.

“You _never_ ring me on this line,” came his grumble. “How bad is it?”

“Very,” I told him. “I need a car moved out, preferably as far as possible from London.”

“Where is it now?” Part of what I admire about Danny is that in a crisis he’s unflappable. He’s also a bit more used to dealing with hands-on crime than I am.

I told him where it was, who’s it was, and reassured him I was taking Samantha to safety.  
“Are you stashing her at yours?” he asked, and I knew he was taking it seriously because there wasn’t any hint of tease in his tone.

“Her brother is the sort to come around, so I think not. How soon can you move the car?”

“Order’s gone out,” Danny assured me. “Should be gone in the next hour. Does this have anything to do with Nigel Thorpe?”

“It’s looking that way. We’ll check back with you before sundown. Thank you, Danny.”

“Manus manam lavat,” he replied cheerfully, and when I disconnected the call I watched Samantha pour her pet into an empty jar. 

“He’s texting me,” Samantha told me, and I heard a little tremble in her voice. “I haven’t answered. Here.” She thrust her phone at me and I saw the lines on it.

WHERE ARE YOU? 

I took it, and looked at her. “All right, here is what’s happened. We went to lunch. We went back to Bio-Global. Halfway there I got a call about my aunt, so you offered to go with me to see her. That’s why you never made it into the lab, or to your car. Simple.”

“Why would I come with you?” she asked, but gave that half-smile I was learning to love.

“Because my Aunt Eglantine saw you at Sir Gareth’s party and wanted to meet you,” I replied.

“She was there?” Samantha took the phone and jabbed a reply. WENT WITH SLAY TO SEE HIS AUNT. WHERE ARE YOU?

“She was. The older woman surrounded by fawning social climbers?”

Samantha looked up, one long curl bouncing at her temple. “Melaza, she was impressive. I thought she was Sir Gareth’s wife.”

“At one point she nearly was,” I admitted, and checked the time. “Not to rush you ‘Mantha, but we’ve got to get out of here.”

For a moment she paused, caught between my words and whatever had popped up on the screen of her phone, and I took the opportunity to seize the carry-on bag she’d packed. Samantha picked up the jar with her fish, screwed the lid on, and followed me.

We took one of the garage exits, and my suspicious nature paid off as I watched another vehicle slowly cruise along the main road, the passenger clearly watching the front entry of the apartments. 

I drove, making it a point to be just a little slower than the limit, working hard to be unremarkable. We both heard her phone again, and Samantha glanced at the message.

“Get your ass back to Bio-Global; I don’t pay you to put out for hired help,” she read in a monotone. 

“A real charmer,” I muttered, “he’s setting you up, you _do_ realize that?”

“Yeah,” she admitted dully. “Seb, I don’t know how much longer I can hold up, okay? This is huge. It’s terrifying.”

“Shhhh, easy,” I risked reaching for her hand and lightly stroked the back of it. “Let’s concentrate on finding someplace out of the way and have a war council then.”


	7. Chapter 7

_Samantha_

If anyone had told me that I’d be on the run with a relative stranger across the city of London to escape my brother I’d have laughed until I got hiccups. Seriously--adventures were not a part of my life, and the most dangerous things I’d dealt with of late were the chemicals and compounds in the lab. I mean this was _me_ —the poster girl for a generally boring life. I certainly wasn’t the kind of woman to end up in the front seat of a Jag headed to who knows where with a man I’d only met three times.

Apparently things had changed. I clutched Zoth’s jar and shot a side glance at Seb, who gave me a reassuring smile. “We actually ARE going to see my aunt, by the by,” he told me. “She’ll not only be our alibi, but smart counsel as well.”

“And we can just . . . drop in like this?” I wanted to know. 

Sebastian hit some button that activated a speakerphone, and after a two rings I heard a woman’s elegant voice from the dashboard.  
“Yes, nephew?”

“It’s a code two,” Sebastian told her. “We’re stopping by in about twenty-five minutes if that’s all right with you.”

“Of course,” she replied. “And your guest?”

“Ms. Lopez-Campbell. You’ll like her—she’s brilliant.”

“Oh _my._ Well then, welcome one and all.”

She hung up and when I looked again at Seb he was . . . blushing, which seemed a little strange.

“What’s a code two?”

“Oh,” and he sort of fumbled. “It just means . . . a change of plans, I suppose.” He kept looking at the rear view mirror, and I felt the car speed up. “Hmm, let’s see if we can make it in a shorter amount of time.”

The car revved up and I looked back, but I couldn’t see anything suspicious behind us. Sebastian was humming now and I got the impression he enjoyed zooming along at increasing speed. If it had been in any other circumstance I might have liked it too, but I was still processing the idea that Mohammad was missing and my brother was the most likely kidnapper. I hugged the jar a little more tightly and tried to enjoy the passing scenery. 

It shifted from cityscapes to countryside and in the afternoon light a lot of it was gorgeous. Or it would have been if I wasn’t so preoccupied.

About half an hour later when we made it through a charming village and headed up a long climbing road, I finally started noticing things again and freaked a little at the size of the building in the distance beyond the iron gate in the stone fence around it. “ _This_ is your aunt’s house?” 

“Lychgate Hall,” Sebastian replied, and pressed another button somewhere. The gates swung open and we headed up the long drive of stones set in grass. I gaped, mostly because the place looked straight out of a period piece drama, and also because a thin, elegant older woman in a country casual skirt and sweater stood waiting on the steps. As we pulled up, Sebastian leaned forward and spoke urgently.

“It would be best to let ME doing the talking at this point; auntie will have some . . . _assumptions_ about . . . us.”

I realized in an instant what he meant.

“She’s a matchmaker,” I guessed, aware of the slight look of panic on his face. I’d seen it in the mirror a few times myself back when my mother’s friend Rosalie was trying to fix me up with her nephews.

Seb nodded, looking embarrassed and I couldn’t blame him. Ah well, once his aunt got a good look at me, the pressure would be off, that was for sure. Sebastian slipped out and was around the car opening the door before I could even grab the handle. He helped me out, and introduced me. “Aunt Eglantine, this is Samantha Lopez-Campbell.”

The woman looking at me was about twice as elegant as I remembered, but sharp, too. She smiled and held out a hand that was both cool and strong. “De _light_ ed. Please call me Eglantine, my dear.”

“Ah, thank you. And I’m Samantha,” I managed, trying to shift Zoth so I could shake hands but she caught sight of him and smiled. “He’s lovely; come, I have just the container for him. Do keep up, nephew.”

I followed Eglantine through a long entry hall. (suits of armor! She had REAL suits of armor along the walls!) From there we took a few turns and a few steps down until we were in an enormous kitchen that was only slightly bigger than my whole apartment.

“Oh I know, I know it’s cavernous but it does warm the rest of the building. Honestly, the only appliances I use regularly down here are the tea kettle and the toaster. Here, I think this should suit.” I gaped but she gave a shrug as she reached up for a round bubble bowl I was sure was antique Lalique glass.

And _that_ was how I met Eglantine Montmort-Slay.

*** *** ***

_Sebastian_

My aunt was sharp enough to realize that Samantha was unaware of my true vocation as a Villain, and that helped matters a bit. Only a bit, however, since all that meant was that she felt free to ask all sorts of other questions. It’s frustrating because Auntie knows exactly how to ask in a way that makes it an insinuation with an emphasis on the ‘sin’ part. 

And seeing Samantha blush was both mortifying and sweet, although she managed to hold her own as we all settled down for tea overlooking the back gardens. I tried to keep the conversation from wandering down too many prickly paths and whenever Samantha looked away I gave Auntie my warning glares.

She ignored them of course; I can’t intimidate a woman who has faced off with honey badgers.

Still, we did tell Auntie the bare bones of the situation, and she immediately offered to host Samantha at either Lychgate Hall or her in-town flat for the time being. Samantha protested, but Auntie was shrewd.

“Well it’s up to you of course, but I know neither I nor Sebastian would feel comfortable having you staying where someone’s already broken in, and I _know_ how expensive it can be to try and find a new place in town. And you’re _not_ going to keep working for your brother now, are you?”

Samantha frowned, and I could tell she hadn’t considered the matter before this. “I . . . don’t know. It’s not as if I’ve got another position lined up, and there are some projects at Bio-Global that aren’t exactly his . . . .”

I watched my Auntie nod sympathetically. “Perhaps I can help there too. I do have a few associates in chemicals.”

And understatement of course—given that her specialty had been poisons, of course she knew people involved with chemicals. People above and below the ethical line. 

I cleared my throat until both women looked at me, and spoke up. “First things first. Samantha, staying with my aunt—at least for tonight—would be your wisest course of action. You can draft a resignation note for tomorrow, as well as report your car stolen and your apartment ransacked. With enough evidence, the police can give you a non-molestation order against your brother.” 

‘Enough evidence’ that I would make _sure_ they would find, of course. If Matthew Lopez-Campbell hadn’t pissed me off before, he certainly had now. The missing Doctor Fatah was a worry too, and I made another mental note to check on his place and electronics as well.

“I don’t want to be an imposition,” she began, but my aunt shook her head.

“You aren’t. Sebastian for all his little faults is very good with security. Come, we’ll get you settled in and do a quick run down to the village for anything else to make you comfortable.”

When we left Samantha to unpack, Auntie led me down the hall for a private conversation, her expression amused but her words crisp. “Well, this is quite the kettle of fishy surprises. A code two, a charming girl and a rather steely look in your eyes. What are you _up_ to, Sebastian?”

“Did you meet her brother at Sir Gareth’s?” I wanted to know.

“No, although I did see him,” my aunt acknowledged with a moue of distaste. “Coarse and not worth knowing. I must have underestimated him.”

“If he’s got Doctor Fatah, then he’s probably planning to use him to make more of the missing formula, or barring that, use the man as a hostage to make Samantha make the formula,” I predicted. “Ideally we need to keep her out of his clutches and rescue Doctor Fatah.”

“Agreed.”

“I’m going to look around Fatah’s home, and then see about Lopez-Campbell’s movements today . . . any suggestions?” I asked, knowing my aunt would have practical advice.

“Those are a good start,” she agreed, “I’d also suggest putting a few people on the other lab team folk, and a few more to find out about Nigel Thorpe. In the meantime, I’ll be perfectly happy to host your . . . _guest._ ” This last was said with an unmistakable insinuation, and I gritted my teeth.

“She’s brilliant, and if you think you’ve underestimated her brother, don’t make the same mistake with her, Auntie,” I managed. “Both Danny and Sir Gareth think she’d be an asset.”

“Oh I don’t doubt it,” my aunt replied, “and a very sweet one at that. Now chop chop, you’ve got devious things to do, don’t let us hold you back.”

Normally this sort of glib dismissal wouldn’t bother me, but there was something Cheshire cat about Auntie’s expression that had me slightly worried. I would have said something more, but at that moment we heard Samantha calling for us so we moved back to her.

“I’ve got to go,” I told her as auntie stood off, barely out of earshot. 

Barely. 

“You’ll be all right here, though. And you’ve got my number.”

“Yes,” Samantha agreed. “Be careful. And thank you. Everything was really good up until after lunch.”

She was as awkward as I was, both of us aware of my aunt, but when Samantha tentatively moved to hug me, I gathered her in, savoring the press of warm curves against me, and oh the lovely scent of her skin. 

It was difficult to step back, but after a few moments I did, making it a point to ignore my aunt as I turned and made my way out of the house, my blush warming my ears.


	8. Chapter 8

_Sebastian_

Over the next few days, the more I dug up on Matthew López-Campbell, the more dirt surfaced; a truth that was hardly surprising. He had already fired the staff of Nigel’s company and moved his own people into it; he’d also made a few overtures to a few shady businessmen not only in London but also Calais, Dublin, and Amsterdam; people who Danny would have more information about I was sure.

On the personal side, it pained me to see the man had not one but _two_ mistresses, both of whom had been formerly ‘employed’ by one of the larger brothels in Nevada. As a Villain I suppose I shouldn’t have been either surprised or judgmental; after all, our own Code of Conduct has an entire chapter dedicated to the privileges of defying conventional morality, (a fascinating and at times disturbing chapter, granted) but even I could see that the financial burden of supporting two women outside of his own household was putting a bit of a strain on Samantha’s brother.

Perhaps, I speculated, they might be one of the reasons the man seemed to be . . . rushing his plans. He’d used the one available dose of Simon Says on Nigel, and clearly wanted more, which explained his stopping by the lab and kidnapping Doctor Fatah. I sent Samantha a text asking her if there were any specialized or unique ingredients or chemicals to the formula, since tracking those would help me find her associate.

She responded quickly, asking me to call her, which I did, feeling a tingle of delight in doing so, pleased to hear her voice again. “Doing well at Auntie’s, are you?”

“It’s like being a posh hotel with the world’s classiest interrogator,” Samantha replied, making me laugh aloud. “I know she means well, but I’ve never had anyone ask me so much about myself before.”

“Yes well she does have that way about her,” I admitted. “My aunt’s is firmly convinced that she knows what’s best for everyone, I’m afraid.”

Samantha gave a little helpless murmur, and I added, “If it gets to be too much just say the word and I’ll swoop in and rescue you.”

“I might hold you to that, Mr. Slay. So, I’m sending you the list of compounds I use for the formula—most are fairly standard, but there are two here that are rare enough that the UK has only a single supplier. I put in the last order—billed to Bio-Global—a month ago. Hope that helps. Any news on Mohammad?”

“Not yet,” I admitted, feeling the conversation take a serious turn now. “He hasn’t been back to his home, his car is still at Bio-Global, and nobody’s reported him missing yet. I have alerts in case anyone does.”

I heard her sigh. “He’s divorced, so I doubt anyone will unless I do.”

“Tricky,” I pointed out. “It could force your brother’s hand if he’s holding him, and it might not be to release him.”

Not a speculation I wanted to share, but if Matthew was as ruthless as I suspected he was, a possibility. It was as if she read my mind, though.

“He’s more valuable alive,” Samantha said thoughtfully. “Mohammad knows how to make Simon Says—the only factor he _doesn’t_ know is how long it needs to stand before it reaches potency.”

“Ah,” I murmured. “That should help. Is there anything else I can do?”

“Yes, I plan to meet with my brother,” she told me. “Lunch in a public place just so he doesn’t report ME as missing. Your aunt suggested we meet him the Buttercup Tea Shop.” 

“Did she?” Of course she would; the Buttercup was run by one of my aunt’s oldest and dearest friends. It would be safe as houses as the saying went—that is, provided the houses in question had trap doors, lasers and death rays. 

My aunt doesn’t take security lightly.

“Yep. I’m just about to call and set up the meeting, which is going to be very unpleasant,” Samantha admitted. “Confidentially? My brother is an asshole.”

I laughed; I couldn’t help it. Given everything I’d seen and learned about Matthew, he was much more than that, but I could tell she was settling for this particular term as a catch-all. “Agreed. When are you planning this rendezvous?”

About three tomorrow if he agrees. Your Aunt says it HAS to be at the Buttercup.”

“And she’s right. I’ll meet both of you there . . . if you don’t mind,” I added, aware that while I had my concerns, that the choice should be hers. 

“Knowing Matthew most of the conversation will be in Spanish anyway, but if you’d like to be there incognito, the way your aunt will be, the more the merrier,” came her light answer. It didn’t fool me though; I could hear strain in her tone.

“Samantha . . . you’re worried, aren’t you?”

“It shows, doesn’t it? I don’t know what to expect,” She admitted. “I’ve been his lab monkey for a long time, taking orders and creating little miracles in bottles without complaining too loudly. Matthew wasn’t expecting me to defy him.”

“All the better you make a clean break, then,” I assured her. “Aunt Eglantine and I will make sure you’re safe.”

After hanging up, I called The Buttercup, fortunate to reach Mrs. Willow on the first ring. “Ah Sebastian! Your aunt told me you would be calling,” came her melodious voice. “Be careful of becoming predictable!”

“I shall from now on,” I promised, slightly annoyed. Already my aunt’s machinations were at work and I wondered how many other of her associates would be pulled into her confidence. Mrs. Willow would be discreet, but I wasn’t sure about some of the others.

The top of Mrs. Ting Ya Willow’s head barely reaches my sternum, but she was as formidable as Sir Gareth in the scheme of things. She’d escaped the Chinese Revolutions of 1927 as an infant, and the 1949 as a young widowed aristocrat. I only heard bits and snippets about her life, but apparently she’d been instrumental in several government-toppling scandals both here and abroad. 

Of course you’d never know it to look at her in her pastel little sweater sets and jade bangles, her snowy hair perfectly maintained in a sleek bob cut. Those rosy apple cheeks and bright eyes, that old-world graciousness. Mrs. Willow had been running the Buttercup Tea Shop for decades, serving up high-end tea and pastries, blending cultures effortlessly. I’d had my first slice of treacle tart there at the age of seven, and generally visited once a month or so for the same.

“Your aunt tells me tomorrow’s visit will be a matter of some delicacy,” Mrs. Willow murmured, bringing me back to the here and now. “There could be . . . unpleasantness.” She sounded as if she relished the thought.

“We’re hoping to avoid it, but yes, the potential is there.”

“But if so . . . . “ Mrs. Willow trailed off, her tone hopeful, and I tried not to smile. A number of people had underestimated the tiny shop proprietress but I was not one of them. I’d seen her bring a brute mercenary to his knees by folding his fingers backwards, and witnessed her deft use of pressure points to make trained assassins whimper for mercy. Mrs. Willow had trained me in a few techniques, but I was nowhere near as effective with them as she was and never would be, even if I studied for ten years.

Anything in her shop could be a weapon in her hands: a doily; sugar tongs, even a pair of used teabags. (point in fact, a dripping teabag shoved up each nostril is remarkably effective in making an attacker rethink his priorities; more so if the bags are still boiling hot from the pot.) Added to Mrs. Willow’s deadly capacity was the shop itself, which had several . . . unique features not generally used on the unsuspecting public. I knew which tables and booths to avoid, and under no circumstance would I ever turn my back again to the happy elephant teapot in the center of the petit four display case. Even now I tend to rub my right shoulder in painful memory.

“If so, I know Ms López-Campbell is in excellent hands, Mrs. Willow.”

“Thank you, Sebastian,” Mrs. Willow trilled. “You’re so sweet to say so. I will expect you at two-thirty then. Treacle tart?”

“Yes, and thank you, Mrs. Willow,” I rang off, feeling a bit relieved now. The only thing left to consider was how to disguise myself. 

Unlike Auntie, the matter would be trickier for me since Matthew Lopez-Campbell had already met me. She could get away with nearly anything, and I suspected she would slip into her Lady Professor guise of tweedy skirt, cardigan and half-moon glasses on a chain. My aunt would probably carry a battered satchel and pull out a stack of papers at her table, tutting to herself and pretending to read them, making herself part of the landscape of the tea shop.

I considered posing as a busboy, which I’d done before. I had the stained apron and with the application of a goatee,wire-rim spectacles, a blonde wig and a sleeve of tattoos I could pull it off. I’d have to slouch of course, and keep at least one earbud plugged in. Mrs. Willow would expect me to actually clear tables, but it was a small price to pay for Samantha’s safety—

And treacle tart. Best of both worlds, really.


	9. Chapter 9

_Samantha_

Sure I was nervous about meeting up with Matthew; I knew he’d be doing his best to push my buttons and my insecurities, but just knowing that ahead of time helped. I had a lot going for me though: Eglantine, who was definitely on my side, and Sebastian, who understood what was _really_ at stake.

I got the strange feeling that his aunt seemed to know a lot about handling people like my brother, which was a little disconcerting. The way she suggested the meeting place and the idea that she’d be there in disguise wasn’t something I’d been expecting, but I wasn’t going to turn her down, either. The more witnesses the better, as far as I was concerned. Once I’d dealt with him I could take Eglantine up on her offer to help me find a job in London, although what she’d actually said was ‘help you find a situation worthy of your myriad talents,’ which sounded a lot classier.

I tried to ask about Sebastian in a roundabout way, and she informed me he was hard-working, virtuous, unattached and the prime of his earning capacity . . . interesting information but not quite what I was asking. I could tell she was fond of him, though—there were pictures of him lining the upstairs hallway. Those were fun to look at, especially the school photos. 

“All legs and elbows,” his aunt murmured as we studied one of him at age twelve. “Athletic but efficient. Sebastian’s not graceful; he’s _ruthless,_ especially on the polo field or the squash court. It took me ages to teach him to dance; he couldn’t see the point.”

I tried to imagine him dancing and couldn’t quite picture it.

Seeing my face, Eglantine nodded. “Precisely. He’s a homebody, even though he’s got . . . duties.”

The way she said that last word; the way it rolled off her tongue was a little scary. I wasn’t sure if she meant his actual job, or that it was some obscure reference to their aristocratic background. Actually, I was afraid to ask.

*** *** *** 

We got to the teashop at quarter after two; Eglantine insisted on having her butler drive me around the block a few times while she slipped into the Buttercup in her disguise. She looked great—really studious and drab. Me, I’d opted for an oversized pink sweater-dress with pockets and black leggings along with my purse. I wanted to look confident, not like I’d been uprooted and upset for the last few days. Eglantine had agreed with me it would be one-upsmanship on Matthew to look good, so I made it a point to dress the part.

I also had my secret weapon.

When I walked in, there was good news and bad news. The good was that Sebastian was there, posing as some sort of busboy. Dimly I wondered if he and his aunt were amateur actors or something; they both had opted to disguise themselves without a second thought, and had done good jobs of it too—I barely recognized the CEO of Black Guard under his grunge blonde wig and tattoos as he lugged dishes.

The bad news was that Matthew was already there, and not alone. My brother was sitting at a table in the back corner of the shop, and standing next to him was a very large, very serious-faced mountain in dark suit. When the man saw me he gave one slow nod, and that sent ice down my spine. I approached slowly as Matthew grinned.

_“Well well, the prodigal elephant returns. Sit down, Samantha.”_

I did, slowly. “What’s with the bodyguard?” I asked in English.

My brother frowned. “Please—Mr. Pain here is a real-time personal security protocol facilitator.”

I thought I heard the busboy snort somewhere behind me, and I felt tempted to join in. “Yes, in short, a bodyguard. Making a lot of enemies these days?”

Matthew’s frown turned into a full-scowl, and he leaned forward, glaring at me. “What’s all this bullshit about resigning, ‘Mantha? You know you’ll never have it so good at any other job, and if you think I’m going to give you any sort of severance pay or recommendations, forget it. How long have you been planning this shit anyway?”

“It’s not bullshit, and where’s Mohammad?” I countered, trying to keep my voice low. Out of the corner of my eye I saw Seb slouch towards us, menus in hand. He grudgingly gave them to us and shuffled away. Matthew ignored his; I made it a point to have a look at the offerings.

“Don’t worry your fat ass about Mohammad; he’s doing just fine. Totally thrilled to work for me. For _free_ , in fact.”

I gritted my teeth. “So I’m guessing that last dose of the stolen thirty-seven was supposed to be for me, and Mohammad’s just your back-up?”

My brother’s face flushed and I knew I was right. His bodyguard leaned towards me . . .

“Are you ready to order?” came a soft voice and I looked at a small lady standing near our table. “We’ve got a lovely cream tea if you’d like.”

“Ah---” I began, but Matthew tried to wave her off.

“No; we’re a little busy here.”

“Actually, we’d like a pot of hibiscus tea with lemon biscuits,” I murmured, and handed over my menu. Matthew gave an annoyed sigh, tossed his at the woman and turned his attention back to me.

“All right, listen to me,” my brother muttered, no trace of humor on his face. “You want to leave Bio-Global? Fine. We can go through the paperwork to make it legal. But everything in that lab—every formula, every compound, hell even the fucking NOTES on your computer are MY property and I will sue your ass for breach of contract if you so much as whisper about them and I hear about it. Actually, I’ll probably take much more direct action first through my associate here and to make sure you understand, I’ll start with Mohammad, Peter, Edna, and Tania.”

Shit. I could handle Matthew threatening me, but I sure as hell wasn’t about to put my colleagues on the line. I stared at my brother, willing myself not to flinch but it took a lot to hold back any reaction. We stared at each other for a couple of moments and finally I sighed, looking away.

He was pleased by that; grinning broadly as he leaned back in his chair. “Okay then. So I’m going to need you to forfeit whatever’s at Bio-Global as of today—that includes first and foremost the last vial you took with you. Don’t lie; Mohammad told me you two were making more.”

The tea arrived just then, along with the plate of goodies. I took my time pouring a cup for myself, feeling extremely tense. “If I give it to you, will you leave the team alone?” I asked quietly.

“You’re kidding, right?” he sneered. 

I sighed. “What do I need to sign?”

As he got out his briefcase, I poured another cup for my brother and looked up at Mr. Pain. “Tea?”

“For Christ’s sake, he’s just the hired muscle,” Matthew growled. “He doesn’t get any.”

“Not even a cookie?” I was being glib but I saw a flicker of interest in the big man’s eyes and recognized a fellow cookie-lover.

I held one of the lemon biscuits out, but dropped it; Mr. Pain bent to retrieve the goodie, making Matthew snarl at him. “Oh for God’s sake, leave it! You’re here on my dime so stop looking stupid, Stupid!” 

They glared at each other, but I only caught it out of the corner of my eye as I quickly slipped a hand in my pocket, pulled out the vial from it and dosed the cup of hibiscus in front of me. 

After a few tense seconds of staring stand-off, the bodyguard straightened up, ignoring the cookie on the floor.

I apologized to Mr. Pain. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to get you in trouble.” Behind me somewhere I heard the busboy coughing and knew Sebastian was trying not to laugh. He glided over, broom and pan in hand to clean up the cookie. I passed Matthew his tea and took a sip of mine to try and calm myself.

He ignored the cup. “I’ve got thenon-disclosure papers here; all I need is your signature.”

“Fine,” I murmured. “Hand them over.”

He did and I took the next few minutes looking at them, feeling as tense as a bowstring. I was pretty sure my brother hadn’t seen what I’d done, but . . .

Seb-the-busboy wandered over and began to reach for Matthew’s cup.

“Leave it,” Matthew ordered.

“Butyer dun, right?” Sebastian asked, his normally plummy voice now straight out of South London, which threatened to put me into nervous giggles. He reached again for the cup, but Matthew picked it up and finally, _finally_ took a huge swig of the tea.

“Get lost,” my brother growled and I watched Seb shuffle off slowly, pretending to be offended.

I counted in my head, trying to time it just right . . . thirty seconds, in thirty seconds . . . 

“Well? Need a fucking pen?” Matthew demanded. “I don’t have all damned _day,_ Samantha.”

“No,” I said, and leaned over the table to look at him. “What I need is for you to let my team go with what they’re owed, and to forget all about formula thirty-seven.”

“What did you just say?” Matthew growled, his gaze hard.

“I said,” I repeated, “You’re going to let my team go—Mohammad, Peter, Edna and Tania—with their full severance packages, and you’re going to completely forget about formula thirty-seven. Right _now._ ”

I watched as it hit him. Matthew shook his head like a dog with water in his ears, and his gaze went from fury to panic, slowly morphing into a glazed sort of look. Part of me was terrified, but another more detached and scientific part was fascinated. My brother had just gotten about three times the usual dose, so his susceptibility was guaranteed, and he’d heard the suggestions twice, which meant they should be completely integrated by now. 

Nobody spoke, but I could feel Eglantine, Sebastian and even the shopkeeper watching our table intently. Even Mr. Pain shifted a little under the silence.

Finally Matthew sighed and looked over at me. “You’re on your own now,” he muttered vaguely. “I’m not going to give you a dime more, ‘Mantha, and no references you know. After all I’ve done for you . . .”

“Yeah,” I pretended to grumble. “I’ll have my stuff out by tomorrow.”

“You and the rest of them,” My brother added. “I’m cleaning house starting now.”

I nodded, and instead of giving back the papers, I tucked them away in my purse, worried that my brother would ask for them. I saw Mr. Pain watching but the bodyguard said nothing and that was a relief. After a few minutes more I saw Matthew check his Rolex and haul himself out of the little teashop chair, his expression still slightly dazed. “Whatever. I have work to do. I’ll send you a card at Christmas maybe. Adios, Doctor Lopez-Campbell.”


	10. Chapter 10

_Sebastian_

I had no idea that Samantha was going to use her formula on her brother, _none_ , but the plan was a magnificent turnabout, altogether fitting for someone as odious as Matthew López-Campbell. I watched him stride out of the Buttercup, his bodyguard lumbering behind him before I crossed over to Samantha and grinned.

“That was _brilliant!_ ” I told her, “absolutely inspired!”

She rose up, smiling at me and for a moment it was as if nobody else was in the teashop with us. I savored the whole of her, feeling a rush of warmth surge through me as she held my gaze. Compulsively I took her hands in mine, savoring their soft squeeze.

Behind us, my aunt cleared her throat, and reluctantly I let go, aware that both she and Mrs. Willow were smirking. Samantha shifted her gaze to the door, her expression slightly worried. “He’s dosed and he’s gotten the suggestion implanted, yes, but we’ll have to see if he follows through.”

“Sounds as if he will,” My aunt assured us both as she came over to Samantha’s table. “Did you use all of it on him?”

“No,” Samantha admitted. “I was worried about poisoning him, or even worse, getting clumsy and spilling it everywhere, so I only used a third of it. The rest is safely locked away.”

“Good. Well, I think this calls for a celebration then! We’ll have cocktails and dinner at Hester’s, I think, at seven. Sebastian, please be good enough to make the reservations.”

“I’ll pass, thank you,” Mrs. Willow murmured to us graciously. “I have a cage match tonight.”

“Gracious, I’ll have to make sure to place my wager as well. Who’s the unfortunate this time?” Aunt Eglantine wanted to know.

“He calls himself the Grizzly,” Mrs. Willow replied. “I’ve been asked to string him along for about three rounds to make it exciting.”

Having seen a few of Mrs. Willow’s matches before, I felt a pang of pity for whoever the Grizzly was. “I’ll put down a packet with Danny myself.”

When I shifted my gaze back to Samantha, the look on her face made me chuckle. “I’m sorry; would you like me to put a little down for you as well?”

“Cage match?” she murmured, caught between disbelief and confusion. “As in MMA?”

“Unsanctioned, unfortunately. Apparently there are rules about mixing genders and some fuss about weight differences,” Mrs. Willow sniffed. “I’ve offered to handicap myself, but . . .”

My aunt patted her arm soothingly. “Never you mind, Ting; just keep laughing all the way to the bank my dear.” Turning to Samantha she added, “Alistair will bring the car around and we’ll see about picking up the rest of your things, shall we?”

*** *** ***

Hester’s is an old Villain favorite; located up in of one of the business buildings overlooking a more scenic part of the Thames. The management arranged a lease for the locale back in the thirties and negotiated a deal when developers wanted to buy them out. The compromise was that no matter how many floors went up, Hester’s would always be on the thirteenth floor, and since just enough people in London held onto their superstitions, it worked out well.

It’s always attracted difficult but talented chefs, and turns away publicity in favor of that exclusivity that insures success. In short: a perfect social spot for deals, meals, and in my case, third wheels. I felt this last point keenly as my Aunt insinuated herself between me and Samantha, settling against the velvet upholstery of the U shaped booth with the same self-satisfaction as her pet Strychnine. Regulated to the end, I shot Samantha a slightly mournful gaze, gratified when she returned it before smiling comically. At least I had some sympathy from that direction.

“Oh this _is_ fun!” My aunt announced, smiling. I gave her a dutiful nod, feeling a little flush of guilt; I knew she didn’t get into London nearly as often as she used to, and missed it. 

“It is,” I agreed, like the polite nephew I was. “What would you ladies like to drink?”

The sommelier glided over and hovered like a ghost.

“A glass of Chateau Hiver ’59 for me, please. Samantha?”

“Ah, a diet . . . Sprite?” 

“Begging your pardon Miss, but here at Hester’s we carry no _commercial_ brands,” the sommelier sniffed.

I glared at the man, all-too-aware of Samantha’s mortified blush. “How unfortunate,” I drawled, working the quiet menace into my tone. “Well Lady Mortmain and I simply cannot brook both your insult _and_ inept service to our guest, so I’m afraid we’ll have to take our patronage else _where_ this evening.”

Aunt Eglantine was frosted glass; cold and elegant. “Quite _right_ , Sebastian. My how the standards here have dropped.”

The sommelier’s nostrils flared and I could sense he was fighting back the panicked need to hyperventilate; he gave a meek little bow. “Oh I meant to say that we do have a _private_ stock, sir; imported lemon squash from New Zealand that can be prepared to the young lady’s specific preference. Gratis of course.”

I let the man sweat a moment longer, and then gave a curt nod. “Very well. And next time, please be good enough to politely offer the alternative instead of your cheek. For myself, I’ll take a Suntory, neat.”

He slunk away and I let myself watch him go before turning to look at my companions. 

Auntie was holding back a tiny smirk, but Samantha looked miserable, and I felt myself wanting to reach across the table to her. “Are you all right? He was a _total_ jackass, you know; his tone was completely unacceptable.”

“Sorry,” she murmured. “I . . . I’m not much of a drinker, and I just never expected him to . . .”

“To be a snide prick?” Auntie finished. “Alas the world is full of them, my dear. The trick is to remind them that _you’re_ not the victim. Rather the way you dealt with your brother in fact.”

“My brother,” I heard Samantha sigh. “Him I could _plan_ for. I don’t think I’ll ever have the fantastic sang froid you and Sebastian do.”

“Actually,” my aunt murmured, “I think you _could_ , with a little . . . mentoring. From the moment I met you, I’ve thought you were worth cultivating for a very special opportunity.”

I realized then what Auntie meant, and drew in a breath. Yes. Samantha could, _would_ make a fabulous Villainess in her own right. My aunt looked at me and gave a little nod, settling the matter right there and then. It took some control for me not to grin; I had visions of Samantha putting a haughty edge to her natural lush beauty, and the thought was definitely attractive. She had the capacity; I’d seen her step up to it several times now.

Of course she’d need a sponsor and a mentor; positions easily filled by my aunt and me, and although I hadn’t had the opportunity to bring along a Villainess before, I knew I had the qualification . . . all these lovely thoughts ran through my mind at lightning speed, blinding me to the approach of someone from another table. I looked up, expecting our drinks only to find Bebe Victor sailing over our way, looking particularly . . . nosy.

“Well well, what a surprise to see _you_ out having _fun_!” She burbled, giving Auntie a gracious nod before looking at me. “All recovered now?”

“Barely,” I replied, aware that Bebe’s lips were still plumped out and coated in greasy scarlet lipstick this evening. I quickly looked to Samantha. “Still under my doctor’s care as you can see.”

Auntie merely murmured a greeting and said nothing else; she had never liked Bebe and knew enough to follow along with whatever I did. Samantha gave me a little look of conspiracy and tried not to laugh.

“You look wonderful, Sebastian darling,” Bebe persisted ignoring Samantha, “We really must get together _soon_ , sweetie!” She leaned forward to blow me an air kiss, and those pursed red duck lips looked like the doorway to some insane bouncy castle; it was almost more than I could take. Next to me I felt my aunt shudder. Bebe sauntered away, sashaying in clear hopes that her swaying behind would charm me, which it failed to do. I grabbed my napkin and smothered my laughter into it, nearly choking myself as I did so.

Auntie had more steel to her, but I felt her shake with silent chuckles, and sensed that on the other side of her, Samantha too was trying to hide her giggles. Fortunately the sommelier returned with our drinks at that moment, and we all took sips in an attempt to regain our dignities.

“Right, well _that’s_ better,” My aunt murmured. “Forgive me Sebastian, but that woman is frightful. If her mother wasn’t a friend I certainly wouldn’t put up with her. Ah well, what _shall_ we order?”

The evening blossomed from there, turning into one of the nicest dinners I’d had in a long time. Auntie was charming, drawing Samantha out, and told her several stories about my younger self which normally would have had me rolling my eyes or cringing, but tonight I was willing to forgive much. Samantha laughed and related a few of her own tales of mirth and absurdity as well. By the time we’d finished our meals—prime rib for my aunt, steak au poivre for Samantha and a veal cutlet for me—it was late. 

Auntie sighed over the coffee. “Oh my, it’s far past my bedtime, darlings. I’m going to have Alistair take me home, and I’m trusting you to do the same for Samantha. I’m sure you have much to discuss.”

Clever, clever Auntie. 

I smiled. “I think that would be . . . wonderful.”


	11. Chapter 11

_Samantha_

Dinner was great. Maybe it was just the aftermath of finally dealing with Matthew, but I hadn’t felt that relaxed in ages, and of course being with Eglantine and Sebastian helped a lot. They both were so . . . solicitous that I might have been suspicious, but for some reason they liked me. I always thought the English—especially the upper class—were considered pretty stand-offish, but not these two. 

I’d already been through a lot with Sebastian, but his aunt was just as sweet and if I had to guess I’d say she was lonely. Big old house out in the country, not a lot of company close by . . . she reminded me of my grandmother after my grandfather retired.

Too proud to admit she was lonely.

I thought about this as Sebastian escorted me out of the restaurant, and shot him a look. “Is she going to be okay?”

“She’ll be fine. Alistair’s been taking care of her for years, and to be honest, I think she’ll probably fall asleep on the way back,” he told me softly, and I could hear the affection in his voice, which was sweet.

“Good.” I shook my head. “Gah! I have SO much to do, Seb, especially starting tomorrow, but tonight was nice. First time I’ve felt on top of things in a long time.”

We got into the Jag, which I was starting to covet, and pulled out into traffic. London at night is pretty. 

“Samantha,” Sebastian began, his tone a little different now. “Tell me; what do you know about . . . Villains?”

I paused.

Suddenly a lot of things began to click rapid-fire in my head; I felt a little chilly as I realized what an idiot I’d been. “Ah . . . that they’re generally in charge of crime in big cities and my brother really wanted to be one,” I mumbled.

So now I was alone in a speeding Jaguar with a man I barely knew, a man who seemed to have a lot more resources, talents and ruthlessness than the average Londoner. A man who ran with elegant company and at the moment I was pretty much at his mercy. Jesus, could I be any dumber? I began to think about what resources I had: cell phone, pocket knife . . .

“Your brother will _never_ be a Villain,” Sebastian told me, oblivious to my personal revelation. “For one thing he hasn’t the common sense God gave an aardvark.”

I giggled nervously. “That’s true.”

“And for another, he lacks . . . panache,” Sebastian went on. “No élan, no polish to his schemes. I know he’s your blood relative, but his naked ambition will ruin any attempt he makes at establishing himself in Villainy either here or abroad. He’s simply not capable of looking at how the pieces of the underworld fit together or how he can fit with them . . . sorry, sorry, I’m getting carried away. Are you cold?”

I was, a little bit, and not all of it was the night air. I tried to smile but I know it must have looked pretty sickly because Sebastian shot me an alarmed look. “Samantha . . .”

“Please stop the car,” I asked, feeling overwhelmed. 

To his credit, he did, which I knew he would. The car glided into a parking lot outside a Sainbury’s. “Samantha . . .” he actually sounded concerned, but I wasn’t quite ready to believe him, so I undid my seatbelt and started to climb out of the Jag.

“I need . . . a few things,” I mumbled. Before I could get to my feet he was already out and at my door, opening it for me. Gah, manners and long legs—Sebastian was driving me a little nuts here. If he really was a Villain—and all the clues were sure pointing that way—then he was a pretty endearing one.

Confused. I was feeling very confused. 

I stepped into the bright artificial lights of Sainsbury’s, making a beeline for the first aisle. Behind me I heard Sebastian’s footsteps, “Do we need a basket, or a trolley?”

“Cart,” I told him over my shoulder; anything to buy a little time. Quickly I found the first item I could weaponize: vinegar. I tucked a bottle in my arms and looked further down the aisle, considering the cooking spray and bottles of canola oil but before I could choose anything, Sebastian was wheeling a cart towards me, his expression indulgently curious. 

“Vinegar?”

“It’s a primary acid,” I mumbled. “Useful.”

“Yes,” he agreed, and waited until I’d surrendered it into the cart. I noticed Sebastian didn’t ask me _why_ I felt the urgent need to pick up a bottle of it at this point in the night, and for some reason that made me feel better. He leaned his forearms on the cart and gave me a bright-eyed look. "What else?"

"Ummm. Baking soda."

"Are we making a volcano?" now he was grinning, and damn him if I didn't grin back. Just a little.

"No,” I admitted. “I just . . .” How could I explain?

I looked at him and watched his expression shift; saw his smirk fade away and a sense of realization settle in, making him look a bit vulnerable in his fancy suit. “My God: you’re frightened. I’ve _completely_ mucked this up and now you’re trying to figure out how to safely get away from me,” he murmured wryly. “I’m an _idiot._ ”

“Well, you’re not exactly wrong about the first part,” I told him honestly. “This has been kind of an _off_ week for me in regard to trust issues, Seb, so it doesn’t help when someone driving you around in the dark asks about Villains.” 

“Agreed,” he murmured, wincing a little. “So . . . vinegar for self-defense?”

“Only because I didn’t start on the aisle with pesticides or bleach,” I admitted. “There are about sixteen different things I could whip up on the fly if I had to, but only four would be lethal.”

An old woman coming around the aisle heard that, paused, and promptly turned her cart around. Both of us watched her go, and then looked at each other and started chuckling because really? This had to be the wrong sort of conversation for anyone to interrupt. 

Sebastian ran a hand through his hair, ruffling it a bit, and sighed. “Should I try again? Put this conversation on the right foot, or shall we call it a night?”

I set the vinegar in the cart, and looked up at him. It was unfair that even in the unflattering light of Sainsbury’s he looked completely dashing—James Bond on a grocery run. “Let’s start again, but . . . I really do need to buy some things. You push.”

“Lead on,” he told me, and we made our way out of the aisle and over the right side of the store, where the produce was. I considered a stack of peaches and chose two.

“All right. So am I right in assuming you’re . . . a V?” I murmured to him. 

Sebastian chuckled again. “A V. I know you’re trying to be discreet, but it’s after nine at the market; you can say ‘Villain’ and nobody will flinch. And yes, I am. So are a few other people you’ve met.”

I shot him a look. “Sir Ravi?”

“I cannot confirm or deny. Only _one_ person has given me permission to reveal status, and she’s your hostess,” Sebastian replied, picking up a honeydew and sniffing it. “I’ve had this before, I think.”

“If you’ve ever had a continental breakfast, then yes. Your aunt is a Villain?”

Somehow this didn’t surprise me.

Somehow this completely reassured me.

“Oh it’s _melon_. I’ve never seen one in its entirety. Yes, a Villainess. One of the top in all of Europe, actually.” Sebastian hefted the honeydew for a moment. “How does one open it?”

“You’re kidding me,” I blurted. “You don’t know how to slice a _melon_?”

He set it down quietly. “Actually, no. I’ve had a cook all my life, and don’t go into the kitchen very often. I know that sounds extremely snobbish but it’s true, so there you are; laugh if you must.”

Once again I had to stop and reassess things. I’d actually embarrassed him, and at the same time I was so dumbfounded that I wasn’t sure what to do so I reached over and patted his hand. “I’m sorry. I guess we really are from two different worlds at times. I shouldn’t have made fun of you.”

“It’s all right,” Sebastian assured me, managing a little smile. “We all have our moments I suppose.” He caught my gaze, eyes open and vulnerable . . . 

I felt a little dizzy, so I cleared my throat. “So . . . you and your aunt are . . . bad guys.”

“No, not in the general scheme of things. I mean, we’ve dealt with and done things that aren’t always within the law of the land, and we do make a profit from some of those actions but our self-interest is to benefit of the greater good. For example,” he warmed up, “I currently keep surveillance on the ports of London. Ostensibly it’s to keep an eye out for rivals in the smuggling trade, but I’ve also spotted potential terrorists, security breaches and stopped other crimes.”

“So by being kingpin, you get to . . . regulate crime?” It sounded absurd and logical at the same time; I blamed it on the lateness of the hour and the store, which was playing weird muzak around us.

“If you like; it’s rather a good way to consider it,” Sebastian murmured. “Criminal activity is inevitable, but if it’s overseen and directed and managed, then there’s far less of it disrupting people’s lives. I’m speaking of the financially profitable sorts of crime, though--not those committed by passion, like murder. Those are generally outside our purview.”

Over the next forty minutes I picked up shampoo, nail polish remover, Gouda cheese and a hell of an education about Villainy. Sebastian patiently answered my questions and the more he talked, the more intrigued I got. Sure I’d heard Matthew spout off about wanting to be a Villain, but I’d always thought it was all braggadocio, since the general public didn’t always have much to go on about the position, especially in the US. Villains were ranked somewhere between Mafia bosses and scum of the earth, so all this was quite an eye-opener for me.

By the time we made it to the checkout counter, I was so caught up in what I’d been told that I realized I hadn’t even brought my purse in from the car. Sebastian paid for my purchases over my protests, and carried the bag out, looking amused. “You can hang onto the vinegar if you’re still feeling wary.”

“ _You’re_ becoming pretty damned cocky,” I accused, but thanked him again and climbed into the Jag. 

“Well it’s a lot to take in I suppose, but if I leave you with anything, Samantha, it’s this: the position is unique, and there are woefully few Villainesses.”

“Glass ceiling?” I meant it as a flippant question but he seemed to take it seriously as he pulled out in traffic again.

“In part. We’re traditional—overly so at times—but I think it’s also because there aren’t many women aware of it as an option. Reputation, I suppose.”

The ride back to Lychgate Hall was quiet after that, and I must have dropped off a bit because when the car finally crunched over the gravel of the main drive I was woke up, a little disoriented. Sebastian stopped and got out, coming around to my side before I was even fully awake.

“Late hours,” he murmured, helping me out, “and lots to think about. I shan’t be seeing you for a few days I’m afraid; I’ve got to get back to Blackguard and deal with not only your brother and his doings but my own business as well. But I’ll be in touch, and certainly Auntie will be there if you’ve got questions. I . . . I really enjoyed tonight.”

I looked up at him. “Me too,” I admitted. It had been a terrific night; I couldn’t argue with that. Sebastian walked me up the wide steps and tapped in some code on the keypad before hesitating.  
I knew that feeling. It hadn’t been a date, more of a pre-date, but after all we’d been through, the two of us were beyond just a ‘good-night’ at this point. So I slipped my arms around him and hugged him, more tightly than I had the first time when his aunt had been watching.

Sebastian hugged me back, giving a deep sigh that made me realize how tense he’d been, and I giggled against his shirtfront. “Remember, if you’re nervous, I’m probably _twice_ as nervous.”

“’Mantha darling, there is no possible way on God’s green earth you could be twice as nervous as I am,” he murmured to me. “I’m not very good at hugs. They’re like . . . melons.”

“Seem to be doing just fine to me,” I countered, savoring the circle of his arms around me. It was lovely to be there in the porch light, holding and being held, breathing in his aftershave and his own masculine scent. Even the rumble of his voice felt better in a hug. “See?”

“I do,” he chuckled, and squeezed a little tighter before finally letting me go, slowly and with genuine regret. He gave me another smile. “I’m never more than a text away. Inside with you; it’s cold out here.”

I stepped in with my bag of shopping and waited until I heard the Jag start up and drive off before my grin faded.

Villainy. I was being recruited.


	12. Chapter 12

_Sebastian_

The next three days were hellishly busy, and I was grateful for that because it kept me from pining too much, or endlessly daydreaming, both actions I might have indulged in. Sweet as the thoughts of Samantha were, I had a lot of professional work I’d neglected, so I settled myself in to get caught up.

Fifteen agents had reported in about the airports and docks; I compiled the information, encrypted it and passed it on to Danny and Sir Ravi with my own suggestions as well. I also spent time rooting around in Mathew López-Campbell’s businesses, making sure he’d actually released Samantha’s team. With a few keystrokes I had him pay her a very generous severance package and arranged for it to be transferred to a secured account I opened in her name. I also added the standard start-up funding into it from both myself and my aunt; no need for Samantha to worry about finances at the moment.

I checked on Nigel Thorpe, who seemed to be resigned to his retirement from Silvershine Pharmaceuticals and was now heavily involved in breeding corgis of all things. According to his doctor’s report the odd and unexplained condition of his urine had cleared up with no side effects. I smirked and cross-checked Matthew’s medical records as well; apparently he was now on a dose of broad-spectrum antibiotics for his neon urine. 

I also made it a point to hire away his bodyguard, Mr. Pain, whose real name was Gaz Bradley, and had him report to Danny for training. Petty I suppose, but there were worse things I could do to Samantha’s brother and only the fact that he wasn’t worth the effort held me back.

In between all these jobs I also made it a point to arrange a lunch with Danny the next day, letting him pick the spot. Naturally he suggested The Wharfman and I sighed. 

_You like their oyster pie so don’t even whinge, Seb_ he texted.

_Not whinging. Just not mad about the neighborhood._

“So, this one’s on you,” Danny greeted me from the booth overlooking the Thames. It’s an old joke of course; whoever arranges the meeting pays, and I don’t mind. Danny already had a pint and a grin, so I expected a fair amount of ribbing. “What’s up, mate?”

“A few things . . . you got the port notes?”

Danny nodded and we settled in, gave our orders to the matronly waitress and after she’d gone, I sighed. “My aunt wants to sponsor a candidate.”

I timed it right; Danny spluttered a mouthful of his beer, then wiped the foam away and grinned. “Oy, and I won’t need more than one guess who, then. Wow.”

“What do you think? I mean you’ve only met her once, and briefly--”

“If your auntie thinks Samantha’s got the stones—metaphorically speaking of course—for the job, then I’m for it. We could use someone on the bio-tech chemical side of things.”

It would be advantageous,” I agreed. We’d been a bit lax in the sciences, my own skills notwithstanding, and Danny’s enthusiasm was comforting. “You don’t think his nibs will object?”

“He might, just for the look of the thing,” Danny shot back. “You know—token protest about Yanks, and then he’d be all for the gender equality and fresh blood. I know he’s going to live forever, but he’s got to be feeling a few of his years.”

“True,” I admitted, sipping my Suntory. 

Danny grinned again and toasted me with his beer. “I take it the sponsorship is your auntie’s seal of approval for more than just the family business, eh?”

“What? No!” I protested, possibly overdoing it as my companion laughed. “She’s a fantastic woman, but it’s not like that right now!”

“Right now,” Danny echoed, “Which implies a ‘but in the future’ to me.”

The waitress returned with our meals, and we fell silent, but I kept my glare on Danny, who ignored me as he tucked into his fish and chips. I finally started on my oyster pie, feeling wary and not sure why.

“Lighten up, Seb,” Danny finally sighed. “I know you fancy her but from the way you’re reacting you’d think it was the first time you’d . . . oohhhhhh. So _that’s_ it, is it? Sebastian Simon Slay, are you telling me you’ve _never_ . . .” Danny trailed off, giving me a speculative look.

“I’ve had relationships,” I snapped. “Experiences. Not that it’s any of your business.”

And I’d had of course, years ago. Two disastrous entanglements; one when I was straight out of Uni with a slightly insane florist from Camden, and another a few years later with a cello player who’d publically ditched me for a rugby player in the middle of our fifth date. Not that I was going to tell Danny any of this.

“That’s not what I meant,” he said in a gentler voice than I was ready for. “Everyone has a past, Seb. I’m just wondering if it’s the first time you’ve actually _fallen_ for someone. That’s different, you know. Hellaciously complicated, that.”

I said nothing, which said volumes to someone as astute as Danny, but he just sighed again and moved on. “So if your aunt sponsors her, will the two of you divide up the mentoring?”

“If Samantha agrees, then it would seem wise. I haven’t mentored a Villainess before. I’ll have to check up on the Tome.”

“Oodles of fun there,” Danny snickered, and went back to his lunch.

*** *** ***

Ah Villainy. I DO have my secret lair, and minions and dangerous pet as per the manual. As I mentioned before, we all do; one isn’t officially a Villain without them of course. A matter of tradition and style, evolved over the centuries and perfected here on this blessed isle. Every nation has her Villains, but the best have taken a page from our bible.

Villainy isn’t strictly a male domain, but there haven’t been many women interested in it, particularly this century. They participate in crimes of passion or profit, but generally on a limited basis and don’t consider it as a career. 

Current regulations forbid it from ever being uploaded online, so I reached behind me to my nearest bookcase and pulled out the volume, amused all over again at my faux binding on it: Kill the Dead. Ms Lee would be the first to laugh at the thickness of the mock-up, I’m sure. I flipped it open to the index, scanning the bottom listings there—Undertakings, Unintentional Killing, Unscripted monologues . . . and in the Vs I find Villainess, right between Vanity and Voles, uses for. (In case anyone wondered about that, voles were essential in controlling the tulip mania back in 1637—a neat piece of economic villainy that destroyed finances of Europe and put Holland on the map.)

The entry on Villainesses was several pages long, listing a few of history’s notables: Livia Drusilla, Elizabeth Bathory, and Charlotte Pruitt. Flipping past those sordid sisters, I found that the profile listing was somewhat lacking, though. Ambition, intelligence and an iffy moral code were all standards for any Villain, male or female. An upper society background was helpful, if only for the contacts and finances but lesser individuals have pulled themselves up by others’ bootstraps to climb to where they needed to be.

Danny is a prime example of that.

No, I was a bit more bothered by the other requirements here—a wardrobe exclusively of leather and or lace, with an option in fur? Heels a must, also either a longhaired or exotic cat (single) or dogs (a matched pair) and stunning good looks via surgery or cosmetics?

Privately, while the thought of Samantha in leather, lace and fur was extremely . . . appealing, and worth revisiting mentally at a much later point in the evening, I couldn’t help but wince at the thought of it being daily public wear. I checked the verso for a copyright date, because this had to be an obsolete edition of the Tome. 

2009\. Oh dear.

I arched an eyebrow and reached for my mobile, hoping to get some clarification, because these standards were simply unacceptable. Sexist dress codes? A supermodel’s appearance as a pre-requisite? Since when would either of those factors help a woman take control of an international conglomerate, or develop a death-ray?

My call went through and within minutes I heard the slightly amused tones of my aunt.

“Good afternoon, Sebastian.”

“Good afternoon, Auntie. I have a question about a particular section of . . . the Tome,” I told her, giving her time to go and retrieve her own copy of it. My wait wasn’t too long, and after I heard her settle back down in the chair, she spoke.

“All right.” I heard the snap of her lorgnette. “What, precisely, is your question?”

“How difficult would it be to completely revise and update the dress code for Villainesses?”

Dead silence, and I wondered if I’ve committed the ultimate faux pas. I knew Aunt Eglantine was one of the cabal who print the Tome, and that revisions can be quite a bloody affair. The last update—which finally included information on wireless internet—resulted in one assassination and the overnight collapse of three banks in the Far East.

“You’re serious?” she asked her tone slightly strained.

“Yes,” I admitted. “These requirements are . . . ludicrous. I understand there are traditions to uphold, and that we Villains have a long history, but honestly, in this day and age, fur is politically incorrect the world over. Any woman wearing it is going to draw a lot of unwanted attention at the very least. Leather has its place, but if the only other option is lace then practicality is out the window, along with common sense. And heels on every occasion? How does a Villainess even climb out a window in those things?”

“Very carefully,” My aunt snorted. “I assure you. But it does my heart good to hear you speak this way. I’ve fought the good fight for the last half-century, but it’s been on deaf ears for the most part, all because Villainesses are underrepresented as a whole, dear boy.”

I tried not to let my relief show too much, but I did feel myself grin. “Well we aren’t going to successfully recruit women in this day and age with these sorts of restrictions, Auntie—particularly the one we both have in mind.”

“It’s never been easy, and these asinine requirements do not help,” she agreed. “However, getting that cantankerous circle of desiccated bastards to reconsider them will be a battle royal.”

I thought as much, and sighed. My aunt, though, gave a little hum, and the sound of it made me smile again.

“Yes indeed,” she continued, “but it’s clear that something has to be done if we are to bring Villainy into the twenty-first century, and that the business falls to me. Tell me, Sebastian, do you think Mr. Holloway would back us up for a revision as well?”

“Yes,” I murmured. “Danny would. Possibly even Sir Gareth would, if the matter were presented the right way.”

“All right then. I will slip a rider into the next addendum that will intimate we need to reconsider the dress codes for Villainesses, and that should give you room for a preliminary revision. And I have a few ideas that I will be glad to share with you if you don’t already have some in mind.”

“That would be lovely, thank you,” I tell her.

“Thank you for wanting to support the change,” she replies. “The time of tarts and dominatrixes really needs to end.”

“Agreed,” I paused and striving for casualness added, “How is Samantha doing?”

“Oh well I should imagine; I lent her a car and she’s out on errands at the moment. She had a lot of very interesting questions at breakfast two days ago by the by, so I assume your little introduction to our vocation didn’t go exactly as planned?”

“Well to be fair it’s not a discussion I’ve had very often,” I protested, wondering what sorts of errands Samantha was running. Fish supplies? More vinegar?

“Clearly,” my aunt snorted gently. “Well never you fear; I think she’s well on her way to joining us. Ta, dear.” 

I took a moment and tapped out a message to Samantha. _Any chance of having tea with me this afternoon?_

_Yes. We need to talk._

That didn’t sound good. I stared at my mobile. Another message popped up. _Bring a knife._


	13. Chapter 13

_Samantha_

I did it. I took the chance and set up a date—of sorts—with Sebastian. 

This was huge for me, but felt right, too, considering how much I owed him and his aunt. I’d been keeping track of what they were doing, and considering they’d both done more for me in a matter of weeks than my own brother had done over the last few years showed me exactly what I should do.

Villainy. I was seriously considering it.

I’d arranged to meet Sebastian at the little building complex on the edge of Wormwood Scrubs that I was considering buying. It had originally been a chemical storage facility for the railroad, but with some renovation I was sure I could make it into a working laboratory within months. It was private but accessible and far enough out of the city to give me some breathing room too. 

Yes, I’d been looking around for my own lab in the last few weeks—Eglantine had suggested it and given that I didn’t have much else to do it had been easy to check property listings online. To be honest I’d daydreamed about it for while, and this particular site seemed to be a real diamond in the rough. Small enough that I could manage it myself if that’s what I wanted.

So I tried to buy a whole tea picnic package from Mrs. Willow, who wouldn’t let me pay, and brought it out to the facility with a few other things. Eglantine had spoken to the realtor, and I guess being a Villainess really did open doors because I had the keys to the place so I could inspect it at my leisure. All good so far.

When I got there, I noticed a single car in the lot—it wasn’t the Jag, so I was both disappointed and cautious, but when I spotted Sebastian in the driver’s seat I felt better.

Made sense to come incognito; a fancy car parked in the middle of nowhere would definitely be suspicious. I pulled up next to him and man it was nice to see him smile my way. Yes, I’d really missed him, so it seemed perfectly natural to give him a hug once we both got out of our cars.

“You found the place!” I grinned. He was back in his green sweater and jeans outfit.

“I did, and it’s certainly . . . off the beaten track,” he replied, a little absently. We were still in sort of a loose hug, and I for one didn’t feel like letting go just yet. Man he smelled wonderful and just basked in his smile but I got a little self-conscious so after a moment I stepped back and took a breath.

“So . . . I brought us some goodies, but first, shall we take a look around?” I held up the keys.

“Oh let’s,” he agreed. “Lead on!”

The more I saw of the place, the more I liked it. The building was a bit Brutalist Bunker style in architecture, but inside the layout inside had enough space for labs and storage. Sebastian listened to me talk about my plans and interjected only for more clarification or to make a suggestion of his own.

“So I think you’d benefit from at least _two_ back-up generators, darling—one for the building’s general electricals and a second for whatever security you’ll need, be it vaulting, freezers or the like. Ideally subterranean housing for that would be best . . .”

We made our way to what had been the reception area of the building where the glass front windows and doors showed a thick layer of grimy dirt and the only sign of life was a potted ficus putting up a good struggle, but I felt sorry enough for it to pour a bottle of water into its pot.

“Poor abandoned thing,” Sebastian murmured, touching a slightly wilted branch.

“They’re tough,” I reassured him. “So what do you think?”

He looked around the lobby before answering, giving it one last study before turning his gaze my way.

“I think it’s a good investment, ‘Mantha. It’s got a number of plusses already, and with capital and planning you can make it into exactly what you want. Mind you, it’s not going to take shape overnight but it’s going to make an exciting project for you.”

I nodded, relieved and happy to know he’d seen the same potential I had. “Oh yes, yes, you have no idea how MUCH I want to do to this place!”

“I had my suspicions,” Sebastian smiled, and held out his tablet. I saw the list there and blinked, startled by the names; the appointments; the finished permits.

“You . . .” I couldn’t believe he’d lined up two industrial designers for me, along with a commercial contractor. I mean I was touched but I was suddenly also apprehensive. “You shouldn’t have.”

And I meant it. My tone was flat and it hurt to see his smile fade.

“What? I . . . I thought you’d be pleased,” Sebastian pointed out cautiously.

“Seb . . .” I tried to phrase it as delicately as I could, “Yes, it was very sweet, and I know you mean well but . . . it’s also overstepping things a bit?”

He bit his lip, and I went on, trying to get it right. “It’s like when I was a kid working on a puzzle, and then Matthew would swoop in and start putting the pieces together without letting me do it. I know he was trying to help, but it also made me feel like I wasn’t allowed to do it myself.”

“I never meant _that_ at all,” Sebastian nodded slowly. “And I see what you mean. I’m sorry, I certainly didn’t intend to be overbearing like that, certainly not. I just . . . wanted to support you. Help you stay here, in England that is. Because, well . . . I’ve gotten _terribly_ fond of you, Samantha.”

He was actually blushing. I don’t think I’d ever seen a man blush before but Sebastian’s so fair that you couldn’t miss the red on his face.

So damned cute. Especially when I realized he’d said exactly what I was feeling myself, so I moved in a little closer and looked at him.

“Terribly fond, huh?”

He grinned like a boy. “Terribly. I’m a Villain; I do things terribly.”

“Yeah, well it’s pretty terrible on my part too,” I confessed. “Just so you know.”

At that he laughed. “All right, I’m getting confused now; are we going from adverb to adjective here?”

“Maybe we ought to skip the descriptors and stick with the verbs,” I told him. “I like you, a lot. You’ve been good to me and stood by me and I appreciate that more than I can say. It isn’t everyone who’d do something like that, especially for a woman like me.”

Now _I_ was blushing, but I’d said what was on my mind and without Eglantine hearing it. I couldn’t really look at him after that, so I stared at the ficus.

“A woman like you is . . . a treasure,” Sebastian told me. I could tell by his voice he didn’t know what I’d meant, so I shook my head.

“Come on . . . I’m not a treasure. And I’m . . . fat. A right _cow_ , according to a lot of people.”

“ _What_ people?” now his voice sounded upset and I glanced at him.

Scary. Seriously, I had no idea Sebastian could look that cold, and with that expression, I didn’t have any trouble believing he was a Villain.

“It’s okay, it’s okay,” I tried to soothe him. “They have a point.”

“They’re idiots! Samantha, you are perfect and lovely and amazing and wonderful and smart and fun and as brilliant as a diamond! From the first time I saw you in your lab I _knew_ you were destined for great things, and I consider it the greatest luck that I’ve gotten to know you!” he told me softly. “You know what’s wrong? That the majority of this planet is populated by people who’ll never know what they’re _missing_ when they see you. Your beauty, your kindness, your courage . . .” He trailed off, redder than ever and I realized what he’d just said without actually saying it.

And _he_ just realized he’d said it too.

I was starting to tear up because my God, who could resist something that sweet? Very carefully I blinked so I could focus and moved in closer to him.

“Sebastian . . .” It was a good start but I had no idea what I was going to say, and I didn’t get to say anything more because he gave a little helpless grunt and kissed me.

Kissed. Me. 

As in cupped my face, brought his down to mine and pressed that thin mouth of his on my lips.

And that was enough to do it. I kissed him back, melting under Sebastian’s mouth like butter on a hotplate. I hadn’t done a lot of kissing, but this one . . . _wow._

I couldn’t think, I couldn’t breathe, all I could do was wobble there and kiss him back, which I did.

Eventually though, we had to breathe, so I pulled back a little bit, feeling glazed and incoherent. “Uhhhhhh . . .”

“Yes,” Sebastian agreed thickly. “Right. So just so we’re in . . . complete . . . understanding . . .” He drifted back towards my lips and I let him, making it a point to welcome him back.

We sort of got tangled up, hanging onto each other, shifting from soft and polite into kisses that make me blush even now. I finally had to say something so I whispered, “Are you . . . sure?”

“Oh _I_ am,” he purred at me. 

Seriously, it was a purr. Made me all sort of melty again.

“Are you? I’m not . . . compromising you here am I?” Lord, now he was looking a little uncertain so I kissed the end of his nose and laughed.

“Not compromised. Sort of complicit, actually.”

“Good,” he told me and kissed me again, bumping us into the ficus, which teetered and required us to catch and right it again, laughing a little bit.

I think both of us were a little giddy at that point so I very sensibly asked him, “Did you bring a knife?”

It took him a few minutes to remember my note, and he reached up his sweater sleeve to pull out a wicked little number in carbon. I sort of goggled at that, especially when I realized he must have a holster on.

“So . . . target practice?” he asked, holding it up.

I reached into the picnic hamper and pulled out a honeydew. “Sort of.”

 

So we had lunch out on the lawn in front of the place, with nicely sliced melon along with these amazing little roll sandwiches and pickles and cherry tarts and bottles of some ginger ale sort of drink. I talked about my plans for the building, and Sebastian talked about the application process for Villainy, and both of us talked about a lot of other inconsequential stuff. I really enjoyed myself, and I could tell Sebastian was having a good time too because he smiled much more than he usually does. Finally though, we had to pack things up, and do a last walk-through of the building to make sure it was secure. 

“I half expect a Dalek to pop around a corner,” Sebastian told he, holding my hand. “The place has that _look_ you know.”

“Like a wobbly set at the BBC? Maybe,” I snorted. “But I could design a MUCH better trashcan of endless evil.”

“The frightening thing is--” Sebastian told me, “I _believe_ you.”

“Maybe that should be my presentation piece to the board. Robotics aren’t my strong point but I’m sure I could find the right combination of drugs to zombify someone.”

“That is a brilliant idea. Work on that, because your interview is in two weeks, ‘Mantha, and if not by hook . . .”

I nodded, “by crook.”

And _that_ required another kiss as we locked the lab up.


	14. Chapter 14

_Sebastian_

Few lunches in the history of the world can compare with the one I had just had with Samantha. The sheer joy of moving from the ‘very good friend’ level into the ‘I want to spend the next two years snogging you senseless’ level would be enough to have me breaking into song like some sort of leading man in a musical. Villains do not sing, however; it’s specified in the Tome in fact. We’re never allowed to break into song, get into pie fights, discuss who last did the dishes or challenge nuns to duels, in fact. 

None of those activities had ever appealed to me before and I could cheerfully go through the rest of my life without them, but I did rebelliously _hum_ quite happily and loudly on my way back into London, happy as a clam with my new status as Samantha’s ‘Significant Evil Other.’

And I had plans, oh yes indeed.

I spent the next few days documenting everything that Samantha had instigated and achieved since we’d met, being careful to give her full credit for her initiative and cleverness in dealing with her brother. I knew very well that despite glowing recommendations, the Board would look at everything closely. 

They were a fairly petrified lot with the majority of them retired now, occasionally bickering among themselves, or plotting triumphant returns that were usually more bark than bite. The worst was Simon St. Styx, a cadaverous vulture who’d been instrumental in running the London branch of the exotic black market since World War II. In 1942 the man could not only get you Imperial Russian caviar, genuine silk stockings, and the last painting done by Botticelli, but possibly all three at the same time, along with a shipment of Lugers. 

He’d passed most of the day-to-day part of his operations to others, but St. Styx held a lot of power on the Board simply by virtue of his age. There were a few other chauvinistic members as well: Heathcliff Smythe and Peter Zetrokoff both had continually given Auntie a hard time over the decades despite her skills. She’d told me she’d been tempted more than once to poison the pair of them but had held off simply because she couldn’t be sure of beating the inquiry that would follow.

The rest of them: Danny, Sir Gareth, Ali Azarif and Denton Charles would be fair, at least, and hear Samantha’s application out. I knew we could count on support from Danny and most likely Sir Gareth but winning over at least two others would take a good case. Having Auntie on our side would help too, but I still wanted an edge, and brooded about it for a while. It wasn’t until I had a chance to consider the venue that a possible advantage occurred to me, and I passed the information on to Samantha over dinner at Hester’s. 

She wore pale blue and I wore a dazed look I’m sure. We took a booth near the windows overlooking the Thames and this time Lemon Squash showed up in front of her without our even having to order it—clear indication that someone in the kitchen was paying attention. 

“So that’s the layout as best I can give you,” I told her, passing the tablet and letting her look at the floor plan. “Everyone has their own security of course, but once there, it’s all of us together for the duration of the interview.”

“Are we _locked_ in?” she wanted to know, concentrating on the floor plan. 

“Yes, in a manner of speaking.” I worked up the nerve to touch her hand, and she flashed me a smile. “Does this give you any ideas?”

The minute the words left my mouth I blushed, being all too prone to ideas myself, but Samantha giggled. “Yes, in fact it does. Do you have anyone on your payroll that’s good with robotics?”

“Janey-Jerome O’Tanka,” I replied, a little distracted by the way Samantha had woven her fingers with mine. “They’re very good, in fact.” Seeing her confused expression I added, “They’re genderfluid. Had trouble finding a comfortable place to work before I hired them two years ago and it’s been fantastic for all of us.”

“Really?”

“Really. What’s your plan?”

She pulled out her own tablet and showed me. 

So simple. So brilliant. I was on my mobile to O’Tanka before our appetizers had even arrived, and Samantha sent off the diagrams shortly after that, reaffirming my belief in her brilliance. It was audacious and definitely a risk, but it would be memorable too, which has always been the hallmark of a Villain.

“You know, I don’t think I want to be a Villainess so much as a Mad Scientist,” Samantha told me when our meals arrived. “It’s more in line with who I am.”

“Mad Scientist . . . I don’t think we’ve had one of those before. Generally that’s more of a right-hand man/minion position,” I told her. “Part of a Villain’s staff.”

“Still, I’m more comfortable among my experiments; I worked hard for my degrees and they’re a big part of who I am,” she sighed. “Lab coats over fur coats any day.”

“Fur-lined Lab coats,” I teased. “Diamond-studded goggles, crystal retorts.” 

I meant it for fun, but a part of me wondered _‘why not?’_

She giggled and I persisted. “Seriously, you could flaunt that as much as anything else. Why settle for someone else’s style when you could trail-blaze your own?”

Oh the smile I got for that; at that moment if Samantha had asked me for the moon I would have fetched it for her myself, NASA be damned.

It dawned on me that I was rather hopelessly infatuated with her, and that the board might try to use that fact against us, so I pointed that out.

“My mad crush on you _might_ be seen by my peers as personal bias on my part,” I told her earnestly. “Sad but true.”

“Well then, they can just blow it out their . . . noses,” Samantha replied. “I’m not giving you up and I’m not cutting in on your particular areas of expertise. I’m pretty certain that both you and your aunt are willing to let me handle my own affairs without too much interference, yes?”

I nodded. “Of course. We have some overlapping professional interests, but they’re going to want to know what you _want_ out of being a Villain—excuse me, Mad Scientist.”

She thought about that for a moment, taking my words into consideration and I took my time with my filet mignon, feeling that odd and tender self-awareness that comes when you’re on the verge of something wonderful.

Finally Samantha drew in a breath and said, “I want to follow my own lines of research without undue interference from anyone; I want to be free to create and own my own work with the right to give it, sell it or keep it, and certainly I want to be part of a supportive and like-minded group. Too much?”

“No, that sounds very much like you,” I assured her. “And given some of the compounds you’ve already developed, I predict both Danny and Sir Gareth may be among your first customers.”

“Simon Says,” she rolled her eyes. “I’m going to put a chemical limiter on it to hold off potential abuse.”

“Wise,” I nodded. “Very wise.”

“You don’t have to agree with _everything_ I say,” Samantha pointed out to me.

“Oh I don’t,” I protested. “I really don’t, it’s just that so much of what you DO say is a matter of common sense.”

She gave me a wonderful look and crossed her eyes, making me laugh.

After dinner I took her to finally meet Mr. Slowpoke.

Up on the rooftop garden Samantha watched him with me, admiring his fundamental tortoise-ness and offering up a patch out at her laboratory should I need someone to watch over him. I thought that was generous of her and said so, pleased that she didn’t think it strange I had such a pet.

“He’s very like you,” she told me. “Steady, cautious, deceivingly dangerous at times.”

I smirked. “No remarks about having a thick shell or withdrawing from life?”

“Those would be your _aunt’s_ comments, not mine,” she told me, and gave me one of those little kisses at the corner of my mouth. “I know _better_.”

I brushed a strand of her curls back and gazed at her, feeling shy and happy at the same time. “I believe you do. All the more reason I feel what I feel for you.” 

“Well we’re tabling _that_ discussion until after this interview,” Samantha told me quietly. “I know how these things go, and I won’t have anyone accusing you of favoritism or preferential treatment. As you said, I have to show them that I have what it takes, Seb—all on my own.”

“Starting now?” I wanted to know, manfully hiding my urge to pout a little.

“No, starting tomorrow,” Samantha giggled. “Honestly, what sort of a heartless person would have dinner with you and meet a beloved pet and then not follow up with a few goodnight kisses? I’m not made of _titanium_ you know.”

“Perhaps I’d better check to be sure,” I told her and pulled her into my arms.


	15. Chapter 15

_Samantha_

I was _not_ winning them over. 

Out of the nine people looking at me, five were polite and unreadable. Three were openly contemptuous.

That much was pretty clear even to me, but unlike Sebastian who was looking worried, I kept my expression as pleasant as I could, making sure I still had the floor as I spoke. “. . . and so I think it’s clear that the advantages of having me become a part of your organization can only benefit Villainy in the UK as a whole. Thank you. Are there any questions?”

I stood at the foot of the massive U-shaped conference table, sweating slightly but feeling that strange sense of déjà vu as I looked at each member of the Villainy cabal. They reminded me of my college professors, of the many tense interviews I’d gone through in my lifetime already. I could even get a sense of what they were thinking, in fact. Danny and Sir Ravi were more relaxed than the others, more open-minded according to the feedback I was getting, but a few of the others were too caught up in my gender and appearance to honestly consider what I’d been saying. 

Ah the frustrations of being a fat girl. I could offer these men the cure for cancer or a self-renewing power source and they’d still be snickering about my size before considering anything I’d say or do. I fiddled with my cuff bracelet waiting for the first question, betting to myself it would be from the scary-looking St. Styx, just to the left of Sir Ravi at the center of the horseshoe table.

Bingo. 

“Yes, I have one--just how much do you _weigh_ , sweetheart?” he rasped out, his lips settling into a nasty grin. “About seventeen stone, I make it.”

“That’s _hardly_ a—” Sebastian tried to interrupt but I shook my head at him; I could handle this.

“Originally I was seven pounds four ounces . . . just about twice the weight of the human brain. Maybe a bit more than _your_ brain, Mr. St. Styx.”

It was a good zinger; I saw Danny snort and Eglantine openly grin. Sebastian still looked like he wanted to lay into St. Styx but one corner of his mouth had gone up.

St. Styx’s high cheekbones had flushed a bit and he glared at me. “Think you’re amusing do you? Perhaps you’ve forgotten exactly who you’re _dealing_ with here, Tubby. You may have four uni degrees but I for one am not impressed. All this crap about bio-research and technology, bah! Maybe the others here think you’re onto something but I know rubbish when I see it. You’re _nothing_ but a fat-arsed second-rate chemist bint as far as I’m concerned and not worth two brass farthings, _dearie_.”

He clearly wanted me to burst into tears and I probably would have if I was twelve again, but I’d gotten tougher over the years. I’d had to deal with Matthew for all that time.

I gave a disappointed sigh. “That would sound so much _more_ insulting if you just had the right _voice_ for it,” I murmured, tapping one of the gems on my bracelet. The chandelier overhead fired a little needle right at his throat; St. Styx jerked back, pawing at his neck for a few seconds. 

Everyone else tensed.

“What? What? What the bleeding _fuck_?” he demanded. Unfortunately this came out in a soft, sweet girlish voice; the sort you’d expect reading fairy tales to little children. 

The man on St. Styx’s left pulled back in horror. “Crikey Sy, what the _hell_?”

“My _voice_!” St. Styx tried to yell but he still sounded like Mary Poppins. “God _damn_ it, you stop this shite right _now_!”

I took a moment to tap another button on my cuff and instantly flexible wire cables shot out from the backs of all the executive chairs to slip loosely around each Villain’s neck and lock in place on the other side. I twisted the button, murmuring “two, three, four’ and extra flex cables on the armrests pinned down the limbs of St. Styx and the two men on his left side. Loosely though—I wasn’t going to garrote anybody, tempted as I might be. 

“You’re insane!” one of the other men near St. Styx blurted at me.

“No, I’m a _mad_ scientist,” I assured him, “not an insane one.”

Sebastian was beaming now, not at all fazed by the loop around his neck. Eglantine was a little wary and the others were frozen in their seats so I took the opportunity to smile at them all.

“The dart I used on Mr. St. Styx was a bio-absorbable micro-fine device that allowed me to inject little compound into him that changed the timbre of his speech. I deliberately chose a voice as _unlike_ his as possible, and until I give him the countering agent he’s going to keep sounding like Snow White. Silly, yes, but he certainly isn’t going to be going about business as usual.”

“You fucking _bitch_ ,” he shouted melodiously. “I’m going to fucking KILL you!”

“No you’re not,” I told him, and tapped another button.

He began to squirm in his seat. “Goddamn it, m’bollocks!” came his girlish yodel.

“Hot plate embedded in the upholstery,” I told the others. “Mind you, I also have a nifty little paralysis spray that could keep Mr. St. Styx from bouncing around while I make things very unpleasant under him but I have a few other items to show off.”

There was one of those lovely pauses while I watched everyone in the room re-assess me.

“I for one am all ears, Miss Lopez-Campbell,” Danny told me, his eyes twinkling. “What _else_ do you have up your sleeve?”

I liked him; he did seem genuinely interested so I pointed to the chandelier. “ _That_ is a fully armed Villi-drone, gentlemen. I have it loaded with bio-agents, chemical compounds and a moderate range of offensive and defensive weapons. I can have it spy on you, record all sorts of data, take all of you out temporarily or permanently and when I’m done . . .”

I shook my bracelet and the chandelier detached from the ceiling, revealing the smaller original light fixture it had covered. The drone hovered in the air until I murmured, “go home,” at which point the drone moved to the door, scanned it, shorted the electric lock and darted out once the portal swung open.

“Shit!” this came from one of the men near St. Styx. “One of those could blend in _anywhere_! Bank of England, House of Commons . . .”

“Yes,” I nodded. “Yes, just about anywhere. Unobtrusive technology--sort of like the chairs you’re all sitting in.”

At that they all tensed up again. St. Styx was still writhing and I took pity on him, turning off the hot plate. “The drone is a prototype and the chairs are one of my pride and joys, thanks to a lovely engineer who put their all into them. Like the drone I can inject anyone with anything, restrain them for as long as I like, as loosely or tightly as I like.”

“Very impressive,” Sir Ravi murmured, finally nodding a little. “Very . . . subtle.”

“Villainy isn’t always about flash,” I agreed. “When I came in, not _one_ of you considered me a threat, and yet here I am, walking around freely while the most powerful men in London are trapped like babies in their high-chairs.”

I looked at Sebastian, who was gazing at me in pure adoration.

I tried not to blush and moved over to St. Styx, looking directly at him. “Consequently I may be fat-assed but I’m not afraid of _you_ Mr. St. Styx. You don’t have to like me but you _will_ respect me. If not . . . you’re going to spend a lot of time looking over your shoulder.”

He glared at me, but I had him. He finally gave a grudging nod.

“Good. As a show of good faith—” I sprayed him in the face with an atomizer I’d put into my brooch. “Here, why don’t you sound like Orson Welles for a while.”

I took a moment and played a complicated pattern on my cuff; the wire cables disconnected and retracted back into the chairs. When everyone looked at me, I gave a little shrug. “That’s it, unless anyone has more questions. You have my contact information and I hope to hear from you shortly.”

I turned and walked out, forcing myself to do it slowly and once I was outside the doors I leaned against the wall and thought about throwing up. Didn’t do it, but thought about it.

Instead I went out to my car and texted my thanks to Janey-Jerome, who’d gotten a nice video view of the whole interview from the drone’s feed.

// _You killed it, Doc L-C! Seriously, I thought the geezer was about to piss his trow there!_ //

// _Thanks, J-J for all your work, esp on the chairs. Make sure you get your patents filed ASAP, okay? Those things are too good to have anyone steal._ //

// _LOL will do, Doc. You’re a shoo-in!_ //

I drove myself to my lab and spent the next hour cleaning parts of it out, glad of the dust and distraction. Realistically I couldn’t expect any sort of a decision right away, and I didn’t want to brood about it so some meaningful activity helped. The power was up and the water was on so I kept myself busy with the mundane stuff. It wasn’t until I heard my phone ring that I pulled myself out of my cleaning mode; it was Sebastian.

// _Please answer the door; I **could** break in but I’d rather not._ //

// _Note to self: create booby-traps. Be right there._ //

And there he was standing outside the dusty glass front doors with a dozen black and crimson roses in a green tissue cone.


	16. Chapter 16

_Sebastian_

Oh I knew she’d come through, but even _I_ was blown away by her interview! I’d made it a point not to check in on the job J-J was doing on Samantha’s behalf, worked hard at making sure I was out of the loop beyond a basic idea of what she might do but this, THIS!

Once she’d stepped out of the room nobody spoke—certainly not St. Styx, who was still angry enough to bite steel. Finally Sir Gareth gave a little sigh and looked around the table.

“Well, I for one would prefer her to be under _our_ jurisdiction and guidance rather than go up against her at some future date.”

“Agreed,” I heard Ali murmur, with it seconded by Danny and Auntie, who cleared her throat for attention.

“It would be to our benefit not only to have fresh talent here, but also a bit of . . . gender parity, especially in this day and age. What about her preferred designation, gentlemen?”

“Mad Scientist?” Danny gave a shrug. “Well she’s got the science bit down pat—something we could use _more_ of, by the by. And we’ve always _had_ a slot for that sort of specialist before.”

“But as a subordinate, not as a Villain,” Sir Gareth pointed out. “I’m not sure the positions are equivalent.”

“By merit of her displayed work, they would seem to be,” I interjected. “And from what I saw, it appears that her projects and acumen would be more along the lines of R and D over running any sort of enterprise.”

There were nods at this; St. Styx gave a sour sigh.

“Keep her in her lab and I might agree; she’s not one we need out in public.” This came out in a bass rumble, and for a moment he looked pleased. Certainly it sounded better than either voice he’d had before.

“I don’t think it’s a matter of keeping her there; she _wants_ to be there,” Auntie pointed out testily. “And while we’re on the matter, where the bloody _hell_ do you get off demanding to know her _weight_ , Simon? Is this where it starts? I’m surprised you didn’t ask if she was Jewish, or lesbian while you were at it! This cabal is supposed to be focused on a candidate’s merit _alone_ , and I’m officially putting you up for reprimand!”

“Seconded,” both Danny and I chimed in. Sir Gareth looked slightly pained but he nodded.

“Eglantine has a point. Not only was your question completely and rudely irrelevant to the interview it showed poor judgment on your part, Simon. You deliberately provoked her and we all ended up at physical risk here because of _you_.”

Styx looked as if he wanted to protest, but the combined glares of disapproval around the table made him think better of it.

“Fine, fine,” came his grouse. “Not like I’ll have to deal with her myself any time soon. What’s it to be, a fine?”

“Ten percent of your next quarter’s revenues to go to the charity of Ms Lopez-Campbell’s choice,” Sir Gareth announced. 

“Seconded,” Auntie called out before I could. 

St. Styx looked pained as well he would; it was a considerable amount of money.

“Done,” Sir Gareth nodded. “All right then, for the record: Do we accept Ms Samantha Lopez-Campbell as a junior member to the London cadre?

The vote was six approving, three abstaining, so the motion carried.

“Good,” Sir Gareth announced. “Eglantine, Slay; you two put her up, you’ll take charge of her training as of now. I expect regular progress reports and a three-year plan. Any other business?”

There was none, but I didn’t like the way St. Styx and his cronies huddled together as we all began to leave. Auntie noticed it too.

“He’s not the kind to tolerate having his ears pinned back in public,” she sighed. “I’m afraid our darling girl has made a potential enemy, Sebastian.”

“Hazard of the job,” I sighed. “We’ll keep an eye on him. I should go tell her the good news.”

My aunt gave me a look that was a little too knowing for my comfort. “Aren’t we the _eager_ one?”

Some of my blush must have shown on my face because she cupped it with her hands and leaned in. “She’s fond of dark roses, Sebastian, and those _always_ make a tender impression. Now off with you; I’ve my own shopping to do.”

I swung through the nearest florists and began preparing a mental list of what to do, all the while barely keeping to the speed limit as I headed out towards Wormwood Scrubs. Samantha would need weapons and combat training of course, and her own copy of the Tome; I’d help her look into creating her own style, and of course we’d have to find some way to celebrate her triumph.

So finding her covered in dust, looking dejected . . . I held up the roses and beamed at her.

At first she looked confused, but when she opened the door and I handed them to her, Samantha seemed to realize they actually were FOR her, and smiled.

“Oh Seb . . . this is crazy, you shouldn’t have,” she told me, beaming nonetheless. “They’re gorgeous!”

“So is the recipient, even if she _is_ covered in cobwebs,” I told Samantha, plucking one from her hair. “Enough of this; we’re going into town and I’m not taking _no_ for an answer.”

“But what about . . .” She waved at the lab behind her.

“It’s still going to be here tomorrow, and by then we’ll have hired a professional team to scrub it out. Meanwhile _we_ need lunch at the Handoo’s Kitchen, and ever so much paperwork to tackle before I take you to the armory.”

She goggled; it was adorable. “Armory? As in weapons?”

“Well yes, you’re in the cadre now, and although everyone’s getting used to the Mad Scientist part, you do need _some_ self-defense skills darling.”

“Usually I just run away,” Samantha sighed. “Or hit people with my purse.” 

I did my best not to smirk, but it was difficult. “Effective as those may have been in the past, you’re at a whole new level now, and I’m sure Major DeMarco and Mrs. Willow will be happy to share some alternatives. But first, lunch, because I’ve got a yen for a good phal and good company.”

“That sounds great,” Samantha agreed, and then did a double-take. “Wait, I’m _in_? Is that what you’re telling me? They said _yes_!?”

I nodded. She bounced for a bit and then threw herself into my arms, which thrilled me even when I got a nose-full of roses for it. Of course she apologized and kissed me to make it better which led to more kissing and suddenly lunch was starting to seem like a silly choice to me when Samantha finally pulled back, chuckling.

“Okay then. I’m officially a trainee Mad Scientist and you’re right; we need to get started.”

“Right,” I told her, a little flushed myself. “Right. So let’s meet up at Handoos and I’ll share a potential agenda with you.”

*** *** *** 

“Obstacle course? I don’t _think_ so,” Samantha told me in an appalled voice. “I don’t _do_ those.”

“’Mantha darling, when we are on the run from ruthless and armed thugs it would be expedient to know how to evade capture and make an escape. Part of being a Villain is escaping to live another day,” I pointed out. Her stubborn expression was exceptionally cute, especially with that one stray curl that fell across her forehead. “It’s our schtick.”

“Newsflash; I’m a Mad Scientist and _I_ will prudently have convenient escape routes mapped out,” she countered. “Getting into situations were ruthless and armed thugs are chasing us is something I’m actively going to avoid, Seb.”

I laughed; I couldn’t help it. She was such a wonderfully obstinate woman. “All right, tell me this—when we were in your brother’s lab and needed to get out at quickly as possible, what alternative scenario would YOU have offered instead of our dashing through the building and into the parking lot?”

“I would have called in a bomb threat to the building next door,” Samantha told me confidently. “The police would have evacuated _our_ building as a matter of course and we would have had an escort out.”

“That . . . that would have worked,” I admitted reluctantly. “Might have taken some time—"

“Not in London,” Samantha reminded me. “They take bombings _seriously_ here, remember?”

I swallowed another forkful of phal to avoid agreeing with her and she grinned at my tactic. Samantha looked at the list on the tablet and tapped the next item on the list. “Establish a style? So this is . . . essential?”

“Um, yes. Part of the Tome. Now before you get to the section on Villainesses, Auntie and I are pushing to get the current requirements changed for wardrobe, all right? I looked them up when we were first considering recruiting you and was appalled by what I saw there.”

She made a little moue. “I bet; fashion’s not my strong point anyway. So Danny has a style? _You_ have a style?”

“Can’t you tell?” I gave a little put-upon sigh. “Danny’s Urban Casual—black turtlenecks and tweed jackets; suits of a slightly flashier material. It works for him. And I’m Urban Upscale I suppose—more tailored but subdued with elegant accessories.”

She gave me a Look. I squirmed a little.

“Where’s your goatee?”

“My what?”

“Well, I just think you need a little edge to look a bit more . . . menacing,” Samantha told me. “You know, just a _hint_ of threat to your look. You’ve really got the right sort of face to carry it off. It would look hot.”

She gave me a wink and that settled it: I’d grow a goatee.

I cleared my throat. “Yes, well getting back to style, it’s probably a requirement that’s going to stay whether you’re a Villainess or Mad Scientist so you do need to start considering what you’d like. Auntie has some consultants you can make appointments with to help.”

“Mad Scientist . . . I could have the Frankenstein’s Bride hair,” Samantha mused. “Maybe neon streaks up the sides . . .”

I winced. “Your hair as it is right now is one of your most beautiful features, darling. And the weapons you could hide in it via ribbons and combs and what not . . .”

She gave me an almost shy look. “You like it?”

I reached over and lightly stroked the errant strand at her forehead. “This little curl bewitches me,” I told her softly. “I saw you brush it back when we _first_ met, and it’s never stayed put since.”

“Mami told me it was my brain curl,” Samantha laughed. “The troublemaker.”

“And she’s probably right. Nevertheless, your crowning glory is perfect as it is.”

“You haven’t seen it right out of the shower,” Samantha muttered, and then blushed. 

“Not yet,” I countered, “but I do love having something to look forward to.”


	17. Chapter 17

_Samantha_

So my life had gotten a lot more interesting, yeah. In between setting up Zoth Laboratories Ltd, taking clandestine classes on everything from Lockpicking to Inverse Criminology, looking for reasonable living accommodations and keeping my on-line friends updated on everything, I had a . . . significant other now.

Weird. Well, not weird—pretty nice actually—but I didn’t really know what to do. I’d never had one before, and although Sebastian continued to be an absolute darling, I was starting to panic a little, wondering if I was doing things right. In the two months since being accepted into the Villain’s cadre we were managing a nice balance of affection and friendship that helped me get through some of the hurdles of having my life turned upside down.

There was SO much to becoming a Mad Scientist; there were times I wondered if it was going to be worth it. For example, I needed lessons in disguise and two alternate identities complete with driver’s licenses and passports. I chose the names Penelope Pasteur and Claudia Roman after Sebastian shot down my initial choices of Marie Curie-Smith and the not-so-serious Taffy Puller.

“Taffy Puller? Really, darling?” he’d snorted. “Forgive me, but it sounds like the name of a stripper.”

“Yes well what about _your_ two?” I shot back. “Rodrick Murgatroyd? As if that’s not going to make people take notice? Or Anton Hastings Delamare Blackwater? They sound as if you lifted them both from some Victorian cemetery.”

He looked away. “Why not? Churchyards are a rich database of unused names, and anyway, those are both classically English.”

I rolled my eyes. “The pair of them practically _scream_ ‘Villain’ and you know it.”

Sebastian couldn’t argue with that, and grinned.

Eglantine was a lovely hostess but I really did want a place of my own, something closer to the lab without being in downtown London. I pulled up a list of possible places and spent weekends looking until I found just the right place: a modest two story Victorian-style place at the end of a quiet tree-lined street near Kensal Green cemetery. I liked it at first sight, even more so when I found out it had a sun porch in back. Oh there was a lot that needed repair, including the rotting kitchen floorboards and the pre-WWII plumbing, but I could afford to have those fixed at my leisure. 

The reason it was on the market because the previous owner had been murdered there nearly a decade back. That didn’t bother me in the least; proof I was cut out for Villainy, Eglantine assured me.

“We thrive in atmospheres like this, and the crime was apparently a one-off anyway.”

“I hope,” I replied, but I wasn’t actually worried. I was too damned busy to be worried which was good for me. It kept me from being too self-conscious for one thing. Because I was still trying to figure out what Sebastian and I were, exactly.

He was my sponsor and mentor for becoming a Mad Scientist—that was sort of his official role. But he was also becoming my best friend, and beyond that there was the kissing and hand-holding that stayed, uh, . . . that.

Not that I was complaining but it was a little confusing. Sebastian was really good at kissing; so much so that I wanted more, but I wasn’t sure how to . . . get to it. This physical stuff was unknown territory for me and having to deal with all sorts of urges was making me cranky. I knew there was more than simply kissing, but for some reason Seb wasn’t going there with me and I was just too embarrassed to ask.

_Is he gay? You might be his ‘beard’ you know,_ Lian typed into the groupchat.

_He’s not gay!_ I told her.

_Proof?_ E’thel wanted to know, which made me blush.

_Because the last time I was kissing him there was . . . tumescence, okay? I’m pretty sure he wasn’t carrying zucchini in his pocket._

_So next time give it a squeeze._ E’thel responded with lots of smiley faces. 

_But not too hard,_ Lian added. _Unless he’s into the rough stuff. Oo! Maybe he’s into erotic discomfort!_

_You guys are no help,_ I complained but with a smiley face of my own. They were great friends but more prone to tease than advise. I knew for a fact that Lian was Ace and E’thel had been married for years, so they both had their own lives worked out. 

Me? Not so much.

Janey-Jerome might have been another source, but they were still too new as friends for that sort of talk and in any case they were more into engineering than relationships as far as I could see. I liked them though; from the orange hair with purple tips to the huge collection of Blackadder teeshirts and coffee mugs, Janey-Jerome were uniquely themselves. I gave them a suite of rooms at the lab and carte blanche to set them up as they saw fit.

No, my intimacy issues were all my own, alas, and I tried not to fret too much, tried being the operative word. I focused on my coursework: Threats and How to Make Them, The Sordid History of Blackmail, All About The Attitude—taught respectively by Mrs. Willow, Danny Holloway and Eglantine Slay. As the only student I got the benefit of personalized instruction and did well, even if I questioned and argued points occasionally. Danny was a hoot, actually, and I enjoyed his classes at his nightclub because he didn’t take anything too seriously and was easy to talk to.

I heard about his ex and his daughter, about how he’d gotten recruited into Villainy the same year as Seb, and how he’d worked to find his niche among the rougher elements in London.

“Part of it is blackmail—dead useful and easy to do when you know a particular bloke’s weaknesses—and part of it is face. Look like you mean what you say and that’s half of it right there. Like you did during the interview,” he reminded me with a grin. “Didn’t hurt that you had those chairs, either.”

“They did help,” I agreed, sitting across from him in his luxurious back office.

“So . . . you and the Dark Prince there . . . doing all right?” Danny asked.

I was caught off-guard. “Uh, sort of. I mean yes. He’s very sweet.”

He gave me a sharp look and that’s when I realized Danny Holloway was damned good at reading people. I blushed.

“Sebastian,” he began slowly, “is altogether _mad_ for you. Happiest I’ve seen him in years. But if you’re about to do a runner . . .”

“No,” I shook my head. “No, I’m pretty gone on him too. I just . . .”  
I wasn’t sure how to say it, so I just closed my eyes and blurted, “I wish he’d do _more_ than just kiss me, that’s all. I’m sorry, that’s really personal and terrible I know but—”

Danny chuffed a breath out, looking a little embarrassed too, but he managed a chuckle as well. “Ahhhh . . .”

“Yeah,” I admitted, looking away. “I don’t know what to do. Is it _me_?”

“What? No, not a _chance_!” Danny told me firmly. “I . . . I have an idea though. No proof mind you, just my own observations of Mr. Slay gleaned from a few years watching him. Care to hear it out?”

“Please,” I sighed. In for a penny, in for a pound. Besides, Danny DID know more about Sebastian than I did, that was for sure.

“He’s scared of scaring you off,” Danny announced. 

My look made him laugh, and he expounded. “Listen to me, luv—you’re _everything_ Seb has ever wanted—pretty, brainy, curvy--and now that he’s got you, he doesn’t want to risk pushing it. Cautious, our Sebastian is. You didn’t hear it from me, but I’m betting you’re the first person he’s _ever_ fallen in love with.”

“But,” I started, and didn’t know what else to say.

“Let me suss him out,” Danny murmured, reaching over to pat my hand. “Bloke to bloke. I’m betting he’s horribly frustrated.”

I rolled my eyes. “Not the _only_ one.”

“The course of true love and all that,” Danny pointed out kindly. “He’s brilliant when it comes to tech of course, but maybe not so _on_ it about other things. And this will stay with us; goes without saying.”

“Blackmail, the practical application?” I muttered, still red in the face.

“I’d never blackmail _you,_ ” Danny told me, “too terrified of what you’d do for revenge.”

*** *** *** 

I knew I was due for a lesson with weapons later in the week; a lesson Seb was teaching out at the private gym run by Mrs. Willow. We were going to cover knives, tasers, batons . . . everything but guns apparently. Was I looking forward to it? Not really—not only was I not keen on weapons, but I was also self-conscious about my workout clothes. Oh sure I’d found a place that catered to women my size, but having pretty leotards doesn’t automatically translate into self-confidence, no matter how much the ads tried to assure me.

Still, I hadn’t seen Seb in nearly a week and I missed him, so I told myself to suck it up and stepped into the gym hoping like hell I could get through the lesson part without too much trouble.

Too bad it didn’t work out that way.


	18. Chapter 18

_Sebastian_

Samantha was proving to be a brilliant student; just as I knew she would be. Mrs. Willow and Danny both reported she was excelling at her classes and I already knew Auntie was very pleased with her progress as well. She was quick on the uptake, challenged points she didn’t agree with, and brought up others that expanded the topics.

In short, perfect for the program.

I worked to streamline my own enterprises, which proved fairly easy to do; released J-J to work for Samantha, set up a few promising techs into supervisory positions and did what I could to keep track of the expansion of BlackGuard’s surveillance into Wales. (More information is always useful, even Welsh information.) I still found time for my weekly visit with Auntie, who was unmerciful about my appearance.

“Gracious, your chin is terribly smudged,” she remarked, keeping a straight face.

“I’m altering my style a bit,” I told her, smiling tightly. “At the suggestion of a friend.”

“A _friend_ , well that changes everything,” came her reply. “And does this friend know you look as if you’ve got the remains of a chocolate milk mustache all over your face?”

“Not yet,” I murmured, letting the criticism roll off my back. “It’s a work in progress.”

“Given the _state_ of it, I can only offer up a prayer,” Auntie snorted, but she did manage a smile. “How goes BlackGuard?”

I spoke at length, adding that I wanted to offer a line of home security that I would offer only to specifically targeted customers to boost our blackmail revenue and increase our political influence, which pleased Auntie enormously.

“Oh yes, a little video footage can go a long way in the right hands. Excellent, nephew, truly. And now tell me about Samantha.”

I gave my aunt a slightly confused look; I knew for a fact that they’d seen each other earlier that week in fact. Then it dawned on me she was referring to the more personal aspects; aspects I was loathe to share. “She’s fine. Doing well in her classes.”

“Yes, she’s quite the apt pupil,” Auntie agreed. “Madame Dentelle has already done fittings for several lovely outfits this week and we’ve looked for shoes. She won’t let me talk her into going to a salon though; insists on keeping her hair as it is.”

“Good,” I offered as neutrally as I could. “She’s got very pretty hair.”

“Yes,” Auntie offered, keeping her gimlet eye on me. It was the sort of stare she specialized in; a glare that made lesser men break into a sweat and I might have been intimidated but not now. 

She waited until I took a sip of tea to add, “and of course we’re getting her some utterly _scandalous_ lingerie from Jezebel’s as well.”

I choked. Hot tea went down my windpipe and I coughed, torn between needed to breathe and dealing with the mental image of Samantha in scraps of silk.

Pleased, Auntie let me recover on my own, her expression one of mock-innocence. “Oh dear, I didn’t _mean_ to startle you.”

“I’m fine,” I managed in a hoarse tone, lying. In truth I was hardly fine. The ongoing effort of keeping myself from seducing lovely Samantha was, if the pun can be forgiven, becoming harder by the day. But I’d decided that having her finish her training without further distractions was critical on both our parts.

And it was proving a difficult path, certainly. I hadn’t realized how tempting she could be even in the most innocuous situations. I allowed myself the indulgence of kissing her---I don’t think I could have survived without that—but kept all other contact to the minimum when with her. Most of the time it was tolerable, but occasionally my baser nature demanded clandestine manual relief complete with fantasy, which was becoming a poor crutch. 

“Bosh,” Auntie replied, interrupting my thoughts. “By rights you should be at the very least smirking but instead you look dreadful. Please tell me you haven’t made a dog’s breakfast of matters with Samantha.”

I took a deep breath. “Not that it’s any business of yours, but no, Samantha and I are fine. Just fine.”

“I don’t believe you,” Auntie snorted. “Ah, the two of you! She’s a total innocent you know, so _she_ hasn’t got a clue, and then _you’re_ being all noble for some damned reason and none of it suits me at _all_. I’m _not_ going to live forever, Sebastian, and I do so want babies to spoil!”

I would have snapped at her but I was still inwardly goggling at the concept of Samantha being virgin and too aware of the suddenly chagrined, melancholy look on my aunt’s face to bite back.

She was old, I knew. I was her last relative as she was mine, so I took her bony hand and squeezed it. “Aunt Eglantine, I love you but Samantha needs to finish her training before I press my suit. She deserves the chance to stand on her own, without distraction or obligation or messy emotional . . . blackmail. Not from me and not from you.”

Auntie lifted her chin and gave a sigh; her concession that I was right. “I don’t _like_ it.”

“I don’t either,” I agreed. “If I had my way I’d sweep her off her feet tomorrow, but we both brought her _into_ this venture and we’d be pretty poor teachers if we didn’t follow through with the best training we can give.”

“Bah,” Auntie grumbled. “I do so hate it when you’re _right_. Nevertheless, you’ll keep in mind that I’m . . . _some_ what mortal?”

“Perish the thought,” I teased her gently. “You’ll outlive us all, and lead an army of youngsters into the next millennia.”

For that she rapped my knee, but we both smiled and finished our tea.

*** *** ***

Just when I thought I had breathing space, Danny showed up at Blackguard, ostensibly to confer with me on the surveillance plan, but when he mentioned Samantha as well I began to get annoyed.

“Is _everyone_ in on my private life?” I grumbled at him. “First Auntie then you . . . what’s going on?”

“According to our Mad Scientist, not much, and she’s worried it’s about _her_ ,” Danny sighed.

“What?” I took my feet off my desk and straightened up. “Explain yourself.”

“Hard to say,” Danny shrugged. “If things never get off the launch-pad . . . then a scientist starts to fret, you know?”

“She has training at the moment!” I huffed. “The last thing Samantha needs is _any_ sort of distraction right now.”

“No.” Danny gave me a mild look, and I held it, feeling a little confused.

“No?”

“No. What she _needs_ is a little assurance that over and above anything related to Mad Sciencing you’re still interested in _her_. Seb think about it—I bet she’s been told all her life she’ll never land a bloke. I wouldn’t doubt that brother of hers did a number on her head for years. So she gets you, and things are lovely until apparently you put on the brakes and _don’t tell her why_. Pretty soon Samantha’s going to think you’re using her _too_.”

I blinked at Danny because not only did what he say make sense, it also had _never_ occurred to me. I could see it now though, especially the part about Matthew. “I’m . . . an idiot.”

“Got it in one,” Danny agreed, and he wasn’t smiling. “So you thought any sort of romance would be distracting? For her, or for _you_ , Romeo?”

THAT was more like the Danny I knew. I glared at him. “Training is difficult enough, and she’s just _sooo_ . . . luscious.” I know that last came out as a bit of a pained growl but I was fed up now, and feeling like twenty sorts of idiots.

“So _do_ something about it and soon, before she sends an army of Daleks to claim your manly bits and bobs, mate. Let her know _why_ you were being stupidly noble and then . . .” he waved a hand at me, “Do something villainously lusty with her. Just spare me the details. Oh, and wipe your face first,” he added with a smirk, “you’ve got a lot of dirt on your chin.”

*** *** *** 

When Samantha came into the gym I had a speech prepared about how I’d stupidly made a decision about us without actually telling her; about how I hoped she would forgive me and how much I adored her.

But when I saw her in her pretty tights somehow my tongue wouldn’t work, and I very nearly tased myself. So much for being a cool and collected Villain. She watched me fumble. “Are you okay?”

“Er, I will be,” I tried to reassure her. I’d opted for sweat pants and a simple teeshirt all in black of course, but even then felt self-conscious. Growing up long and lanky amid schoolboys who were prone to bullying was a classically English upbringing I suppose, but I’d worked to put on a little muscle since those days. Still, I’d never have the big frame Danny had, or the cat-like reflexes of Mrs. Willow. And my general paleness, my ginger-ness . . . not very appealing, I knew.

“You look . . . dangerous,” Samantha told me. She reached up a hand to my chin, breaking into a little smile. “Oh! You’re growing one!”

“Trying to,” I admitted, feeling a surge of renewed confidence. “Despite some harassment.”

“They’re just jealous,” Samantha assured me. “Especially your aunt.”

That broke me up and I laughed despite myself, Samantha joining in for a few long moments.

It gave me a little more courage, and I drew in a breath. “Mantha darling, I’ve been an idiot, as usual. A month ago I decided—without consulting you of course—that it would be wise to hold off on going any further in our relationship until your training was over. At the time I thought it was a sensible decision and only now do I realize how utterly thick I’ve been. Stupid not to _talk_ to you about it, and stupid to think I was going to succeed.”

Her eyes widened, and her mouth pursed up in a dangerous way. Samantha stared at me and in that moment I felt the flash of her anger in a wave of heat that left me dizzy and I confess, aroused.

“Yes, you were an idiot! You just decided something _that_ important without _telling_ me? Without giving _me_ a chance to say anything about it? Why? _Why_ are you treating me like some kid?”

“No! You’re _not_ a child,” I desperately tried to assure her. “And I wanted to help you get through the training! I thought it would help if you— _we_ —weren’t distracted!”

“Well you’re wrong!” she yelled, storming up to me, hair flying everywhere. “I’m _always_ distracted around you! You and your stupid handsome face and sexy kisses and tortoise! And then when you were all holding back and I was wondering if you were having second thoughts and of _course_ you were because I’m just some niña gorda and you could be macking with someone like that Beebe girl—"

I grabbed her and kissed her; desperate measures, fueled by panic and lust so strong I was shaking with it.

Ah! What a mouth Samantha has; hot, soft, sweet and delicious. She kissed me back, furiously at first but gradually softening, letting her anger boil down but keeping the passion which I matched, slurp for slurp. I slid my arms around her and yes, grabbed her arse.

Glorious! She squeaked, flinching up against me and that only poured fuel on a fire that had been simmering for a while. Panting, she pulled back and stared up at me, shocked.

“You, you—mis nalgas!” Samantha spluttered.

“No, _mis_ nalgas,” I informed her, giving a squeeze that made it clear I meant that. “God I’ve been dying to do that for _ages_!”

She blushed and I could feel the heat on her face, pink and flushed. “Sebastian Slay, really?”

“Really,” I assured her and did it again to prove my point.


	19. Chapter 19

_Samantha_

Unreal. Sebastian was not only kissing the breath out of me but he was groping my ass! Part of me was thinking _finally_! And the other part was just stunned that he’d been holding back out of consideration for me.

 _Misplaced_ consideration. _Assumptive_ consideration, but still a kind of thoughtfulness of sorts.

I was going to have to have a _long_ talk with him about that annoying masculine Villain habit of his, the one about taking charge particularly regarding joint decisions, I really was. But not at the moment. At the moment I was dealing with a whole lot of hormones and emotions and something that was starting to poke against my thigh.

“Um . . .” I murmured, not exactly sure what to say, although it was fun to see him blush in return.

“Oh, er . . . that’s—”

“I _know_ what it is, Seb; it’s come knocking before.”

“Sorry about that,” he sighed, and pulled back a bit. “You do tend to em, excite me.”

And that made me feel so much better. I wasn’t alone in this surge of hormones, not by a long shot. Speaking of a long . . . I pushed myself forward and deliberately rubbed against him once more.

Now it was _his_ turn to shudder and grit his teeth. “Mantha, have a care, or . . . "

“Or what?” I wanted to know. Seriously, I did. I’d read up and knew in an abstract way that continued stimulation could result in ejaculation, but it was all theoretical for me, and being a scientist I wanted to well, experiment.

Practical data collection as it were.

“Or both of us are going to end up damp, embarrassed, and unfulfilled,” Sebastian muttered. “That would _not_ be an auspicious start to matters, darling. Let’s take care of this defense lesson first, and then deal with our relationship in a slightly less sweaty setting, yes?”

He was being sweetly practical, so I agreed. Somehow we managed to get through practice with all of the non-projectile weapons. Using the taser made me flinch, even if it was just on a dummy, but I liked the baton, and the knives were just fun. Sebastian it turned out was extremely good with knives. Almost to the level of a circus performer—he could hit targets, juggle them and throw nearly every blade with lightning speed. The target on the far side of the gym was studded with them like cloves on a ham.

“How? Why?” I goggled.

“Practice, and because it appealed to me. Guns are . . . brutish,” Sebastian told me as he handed me another blade. “Here in the UK they’re also _very_ well regulated and rightly so; ergo, being skilled at another weapon seemed wise. Knives are quick, quiet and easier to obtain and replace.”

“But these are lethal,” I objected, staring at the blade in my hands.

Sebastian sighed. “Actually, I prefer to inflict non-lethal wounds if I must. I’ve only killed once with a knife and that was in self-defense. Generally if I throw, it’s to stop, warn, or wound.”

He looked grim. I was still trying to process the idea of him killing anyone, let alone with a knife when Sebastian glanced at me.

“He was trying to kill _me_ at the time, and very nearly succeeded,” came his soft confession. “And yes, it still bothers me. Being a Villain doesn’t mean killing is any easier, my darling, it just means you’re more likely to be in situations involving it.”

“That,” I sighed, “is _another_ reason I’m opting to be a Mad Scientist.”

*** *** ***

Once we were done, Sebastian invited me back to his place and I agreed. It was closer, and after being cooped up in the gym it was nice to go up to that great rooftop garden of his and look out over London. I was nervous as hell of course, but having Mr. Slowpoke helped. I squatted down and watched him amble around a bit. He really was a nice specimen of a Russian Blue, and from the way he was chomping down on the section of banana on the plate I could tell he was hungry.

“I don’t give him fruit too often so he’s pretty pleased today,” Sebastian joined me, watching his pet with a degree of fondness that amused me. I’d read up a bit in the Tome and knew about the pet requirement. Luckily nobody was bothering me about one and Zoth was good enough as far as I was concerned.

“It shows,” I nodded as Mr. Slowpoke continued to attack the hapless banana. “How old is he?”

“Sixteen,” Seb told me, both of us rising up again. “A present from my parents, in fact.”

I stayed quiet. Eglantine had told me that her brother and sister-in-law had died in a boating accident but I didn’t know if Seb was sensitive about the fact so it seemed better to give him a sympathetic smile. 

“They were murdered,” he sighed. “Another disadvantage of being a Villain of course; there are always people trying to do that.”

“Murdered!” I blurted, and then felt embarrassed.

“Oh yes. I looked into it after I was able to hack into the police files database a few years after it happened. My father was an excellent yachtsman and both my parents were experienced sailors, so it’s difficult for me to believe they would deliberately set out into an oncoming storm. Of the few pieces of wreckage that were recovered, the splintering of the fiberglass might be indicative of an explosion, but of course the reports list that as mere speculation.”

I found myself hugging him without even realizing I’d moved, and he hugged me back, giving a little sigh. We said nothing for a moment, just sharing the comfort of contact—nothing sensual, just supportive.

“Thank you,” Seb murmured. “It’s been a long time but it’s still an ache inside.”

“What were they like?” I wanted to know.

“Brilliant,” He smiled. “They met at school and spent two years arguing before they realized they loved each other. Father was the Villain of the family and my mother was the first tactician for the cadre; I get my love of logistics and data collection straight from her. My father taught me chess and rude pub songs and how to . . . throw knives.”

That last came out a little brokenly, and I hugged him more tightly, wishing like hell I could do something to make the hurt stop.

“It’s all right,” he told me after a while. “For the most part I’ve made my peace with their deaths.”

“Losing parents is hard,” I agreed because I knew what I was talking about. I cupped his cheek, aware of how his stubble was tickling my palm when I did so. Sebastian shifted to kiss my hand and gave a little smile as the moment lightened.

“So about _us_ ,” he began, and led me over to the chaise lounge. I sat on the edge and he pulled up a footstool to face me, looking pink in the face again. “Auntie was right; I do tend to make a muddle of things. ‘Mantha darling, what do _you_ want?”

I thought about it for a moment, wondering if I could phrase it just right. “I want what we have right now, but with _more_. Please. I mean, I’m not asking for a formal commitment here or anything but you make me happy and . . .” I waved a hand helplessly, “uh, horny too, so I guess I’m asking for consummation?”

Gah! And I called myself a scientist! I knew how lame my words were before I even finished speaking, and couldn’t look Seb in the eyes. I felt my face heating up, big-time and wondered if I could just quietly sink into a black hole somewhere.

I heard him chuckle. “I can’t—won’t—consummate without commitment. Sorry, but you’re too important to me, and I’m too selfish, ‘Mantha. I want you, in every sense of the word. Yes I want to make love to you, but I also want a relationship with you. It’s stuffy and old-fashioned I know but . . .”

“That’s not very Villain of you. Or _us_ , really,” I pointed out. “The Tome says we’re supposed to have, quote, liaisons with partners chosen for their attractiveness and/or exploitable resources, unquote.” I made a face.

“The Tart clause,” he snorted. “Written up by men in the days when women were considered mere accessories instead of actual people. Did you look up the Partnership section?”

“No,” I admitted, so Seb made me wait while he went to fetch his copy, and then came to sit next to me on the chaise when he returned. He flipped through the pages quickly.

“Off-shore bases; Owls, uses for; Pain, avoiding and delivering, Parsnips, ah! Here, Partnerships.” He cleared his throat and read aloud, “Partnerships can be highly profitable and powerful if entered into by like-minded Villains. The benefits for both parties should be listed and agreed to in a formally binding contract (see Contracts, non-murderous) to delay any blackmail or double-cross attempts. Contracts may be for a limited time or for the duration of the vocation depending on the parties involved.”

“A partnership,” I mused, surprised and delighted at the same time. “Like being a couple without parity issues or societal expectations. I like the sound of that.”

“It’s a start,” Seb agreed. “Auntie had at least _one_ that I know of, and it’s one way two Villains can be . . . involved with each other.”

He’d scooted closer and I dropped my head on his shoulder, enjoying the cuddle. “So is this what we want? A partnership with benefits?” I asked him.

“Any partnership with you would be a dream; and as for benefits well . . . you’re not the _only_ one feeling that frisson of sensual attraction. I’ve been vibrating to your particular voltage since the day I met you and it’s only gotten stronger,” Seb chuckled. 

“Okay then,” I told him. “So we’ve done a lot of kissing; what comes next?”

“An utterly juvenile maneuver commonly known as ‘copping a feel,” Sebastian told me with a straight face. “I’ve already gotten a few in for your fabulous bum and my next area of interest would be your chest.”

“Wait, do we have to draw up this contract first, or can we just go for it and work out the details tomorrow?” I murmured, feeling him slip an arm around me as he set the Tome down.

“We’re Villains,” Sebastian reminded me as he loomed over me, stretching us out on the chaise lounge. “We do what we want.”

I giggled.

So with a lot of fumbling and shifting and kissing, Sebastian Slay did in fact get a hand up under my shirt and bra. The sensations were magnificent and I couldn’t believe how sensitive my skin was to that large gentle hand. I was twitching, breathing hard and going crazy for a while. Luckily I wasn’t alone though; Seb was groaning just as much as I was.

“You feel . . . faaabulous,” he licked my neck.

I’d managed to undo his dress shirt buttons and get some skin time in myself; taut chest, darling little fuzz right in the middle. “Damnnnn,” I agreed, suddenly very interested in seeing the rest of him without clothes in the way. “Mi _gusta_.” I pulled him down onto me—not that he resisted much—and happily groped Seb’s ass in return, the two of us taking shameless advantage of the chaise lounge.

“Ah,” He grunted close to my ear, “This is . . . a little dangerous . . .”

I didn’t care because I had my thighs wrapped around one of his, and wow, the pressure and friction had gone from nice to _OhGod_ in a hurry. I might be a virgin, but I knew what an orgasm was, and here I was rocketing my way towards one with no brakes on.

“Ohh God, Sebastian mi querida, voy a . . . voy a . . . “ I trailed off, panting because Oh yeahhhhhh lovely waves of shuddery mindblowing pleasure were sort of making me pass out in bliss.

“Shit!” he groaned, rocking hard against me, and for a moment I thought I’d done something wrong but when I felt a dampness leaking against my thigh I figured it out. I clung to him, feeling Seb shake against me and when he was, um, done, I kissed the side of his face.

“Wow,” I sighed. “Both of us. Right in front of Mr. Slowpoke and _everything_.”

Sebastian laughed in a resigned way and gave a deep sigh. “Damn it. That wasn’t supposed to happen. At least not _that_ way. But you . . .”

“Yep,” I admitted. “I did. I know about _those_ and that one was sooo good!”

“For me too, despite the um, mess,” Sebastian purred. “Samantha darling . . . I think we’ve just sealed our Partnership in bodily fluids.”

“How utterly Villainous of us,” I told him. “We may have to do it a few times more just to be sure.”

end

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> coming soon--
> 
>  
> 
> _Malum: Cyanide For a Lady_
> 
>  
> 
> In which Eglantine's past comes calling, Sir Ravi faces an unpleasant truth, and Samantha wears lace.


End file.
